


Gravity

by cerebel



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:38:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cerebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hardly a glance, just out of the corner of Mohinder’s eye, but there’s something, a catch of grey hair, a slumped figure, something, that makes Mohinder jerk, twist around trying to see. His heart jumps. Sylar—</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

Mohinder barely sleeps the first few nights after the nuclear explosion.

 

He dreams, vividly and emotionally, but after he wakes up, the dreams evaporate too quickly to remember, leaving nothing but an uneasy mist, a fog that hangs around Mohinder too close, a cold shroud on his waking hours.

 

Molly is usually scared, anyhow. She dreams about the Boogeyman, about Sylar, afraid of the dark, dreading the night when it comes. Keeping the lights on doesn’t help – her room may be visible, but the black outside her window is that much more impenetrable.

 

More often than not, his own light sleep is a blessing, so Mohinder can comfort Molly when she awakens.

 

But, after a time, it begins to take its toll, breaking his concentration, interfering with his research, his thoughts, his ability to function during the day.

 

“Molly,” he asks, one morning, “are you sure this is where you want to stay?”

 

“Yep.” Her legs dangle from the chairs in Mohinder’s kitchen.

 

Mohinder leans across the table. “I just don’t know if I’m the best to take care of you.”

 

“You’ll protect me,” she tells him. “You would have shot that man to protect me. I’m safe here.”

 

“Yes, but,” begins Mohinder.

 

“You want me to stay,” Molly points out. “Don’t you?”

 

“Well, of course,” says Mohinder, automatically, then he smiles. “Of course I do.”

 

“Well, then,” she says, as though that solves everything.

 

And Mohinder thinks that maybe, just maybe, it does.

 

It happens that night, when Mohinder is fogged with sleep, half-dreaming, half-restless against the tangled sheets of the bed. Still sleeping too lightly, not restfully enough.

 

The creak of the door opening slides across the surface of Mohinder’s mind, not deep enough to wake him fully, just enough to make him stir, his cheek brushing against the fabric of the pillow. The bed shifts behind him, the sheets move against Mohinder’s skin, and he murmurs, his fingers clenching.

 

“Can’t sleep?” comes a whisper against the back of his neck, the voice chillingly familiar.

 

“Sylar,” Mohinder breathes. He should be afraid, he thinks, in the part of his mind that can still form thoughts. He should be afraid—

 

“Sssh,” and there’s a kiss pressed to Mohinder’s pulse, delicate, enough to make Mohinder turn his head towards the pillow, exposing his neck dark and vulnerable to the light, sweeping touch of Sylar’s tongue. Mohinder inhales, deep and slow, and he eases into the mattress.

 

It’s a dream, it must be a dream, otherwise Mohinder’s heart would be pounding, he would be running. Or he would already be dead, lifeless, eyes frozen open – but he isn’t, he’s comfortable and warm and so tired…

 

Mohinder melts into Sylar’s arms, too far gone to wonder. “Sssh,” soothes Sylar, again, and Mohinder sighs to sleep.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

“Mohinder?”

 

Mohinder blinks in the bright light, shaking his head to clear his mind. Bright light – it must be late. “Molly?” he asks, turning towards the voice that woke him up.

 

“Are you awake?” she asks.

 

“Ah, yes.” Mohinder sits up. “What time is it?”

 

“Almost eleven. Are you going to make breakfast?”

 

Mohinder scans the bed beside him – there’s a lingering suspicion, that there should be something there, someone there.

 

No, that’s ridiculous. There hasn’t been anyone he’s even  _considered_ , not since Eden, anyhow, and the hands, the stubbled skin, in an echo of Mohinder’s memory don’t belong to Eden anyhow.

 

An illusion, though a strange one. Mohinder blinks again, pushing the covers away, moving to his feet.

 

“Sure,” he says, forcing a smile. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

 

When Molly is occupied watching television, Mohinder dials the phone, and listens anxiously to the buzz of the other side. “Pick up,” he murmurs, “pick up.”

 

“Hello?” comes a voice.

 

“Ah, Claire?” Mohinder asks.

 

“Yes….”

 

“It’s Mohinder Suresh,” says Mohinder. “Could I speak to your – ah, Mr. Bennet?”

 

“Sure, just a second.”

 

Mohinder waits, sparing a glance for Molly, giggling at the cartoon on the screen. A smile quirks at the corner of Mohinder’s mouth.

 

“Hello?”

 

Mohinder turns back away. “Ah, yes, Mr. Bennet?”

 

“Mohinder,” says Bennet, evenly.

 

“Listen, I need a favor.”

 

Mohinder can hear Bennet’s sigh, over the phone. “Mohinder, I’m hardly in a position to—”

 

“No, listen,” Mohinder interrupts. “Molly has told me that she wants to stay with me, and Linderman is dead, so we’re safe enough for now. But the moment someone else finds out about her ability, she’s in danger again.” Mohinder catches Bennet starting to speak, again, but he presses on. “Can you imagine what would happen to her if she went into this city’s social care system?”

 

There’s a brief pause on the other end. “What is it you’re asking for?” asks Bennet.

 

“I need to adopt her, and I need it to be official,” explains Mohinder. “Or, at least, good enough to pass under official scrutiny. We don’t just need physical protection, Mr. Bennet, we need legal protection.”

 

“I hardly have the resources I used to.”

 

Mohinder bites his lip, waiting. He’s made his case; it’s all that he can do.

 

A brief exhalation. “I’ll do what I can.”

 

“Thank you.” Mohinder hangs up the phone slowly, his eyes drawn back towards Molly. He takes a breath, easing the pressure in his chest. He feels well-rested, for the first time in days.

 

“Molly,” he calls.

 

Molly twists back to look at him. “What’s up?”

 

“We’re going to go shopping,” Mohinder announces.

 

“For what?” she asks, crossing her arms over the back of the couch.

 

“That’s not the right question,” says Mohinder, crouching in front of her.

 

“Then what is?” she asks.

 

“For who,” Mohinder tells her. “And the answer is that we’re going shopping for you. For whatever you need.” He straightens up.

 

Molly’s eager grin is the only answer Mohinder gets.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

“Here,” says Molly, holding up the bag. “You carry it.”

 

“Ah, excuse me?” asks Mohinder, indicating the bags already in his hands. “You need to pull your own weight around here, missy.”

 

Molly shakes her head primly. “You’re a guy, you have to carry all the bags.”

 

“Oh, do I,” says Mohinder. “Where did you learn that?”

 

She shrugs. “Everyone knows it.” She holds his gaze for a moment longer, and Mohinder shakes his head.

 

“Well, all right,” and he folds her bag, putting it inside one of the others. “Now, let’s –”

 

It’s hardly a glance, just out of the corner of Mohinder’s eye, but there’s something, a catch of grey hair, a slumped figure,  _something_ , that makes Mohinder jerk, twist around trying to see. His heart jumps.  _Sylar—_

 

—  _“Can’t sleep?” comes a whisper against the back of his neck_ —

 

“Mohinder?” Molly questions, looking concerned.

 

“Ah, what do you say we head home?” suggests Mohinder, shifting the bags to one hand and reaching out to take hers in his other. “It’s getting near dinner time.”

 

“Okay,” Molly agrees, still a little uncertain.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

That night, Mohinder expects to toss and turn, sweaty, without rest, as he has ever since Peter’s death, but instead he falls asleep almost immediately, not dreaming, but instead dropping into a comfortable, restful darkness.

 

A darkness that ends abruptly, with a feather brush across Mohinder’s cheek.

 

Mohinder twists awake, heart pounding. He flicks on the light, half-expecting Sylar to leap out of the shadows, wincing against the expected pain.

 

There’s nothing. The room is empty.

 

Mohinder brings his fingers to his own cheek, following the path of the touch he barely felt. A shudder dances up his spine, despite Mohinder’s attempt to shake it off. He won’t be able to go back to sleep now – his heartbeat is still heavy, from the adrenaline rush.

 

God, is it always going to be like this? Even the bare memory of Sylar, enough to send him into paroxysms of fear, unable to sleep, unable to function?

 

Mohinder slides to his feet, tossing the covers aside, and steps gingerly across the cold floor. One glance in Molly’s room shows that she’s still sound asleep; Mohinder closes the door quietly behind him, and moves to the main room of the apartment.

 

As he steps past the threshold, the kettle, on the kitchen counter, starts whistling.

 

Mohinder’s hand jerks to the drawer next to him, yanking it open, closing his fingers around the pistol inside – but the second he grasps it, it’s torn from his fingers. The lights flick on.

 

“Sylar,” breathes Mohinder.

 

“Hello, Mohinder.” Sylar catches the gun from midair, releasing the clip and setting the unloaded gun on the table. “Would you like some tea?”

 

Mohinder feels his breath catch in his throat. “What are you doing here?” he forces out.

 

Sylar’s eyes tilt up to meet his, and Mohinder’s heart stops. “Come over here and sit down,” offers Sylar, steel coded beneath the tone of his voice.

 

Mohinder swallows, and he moves, one step at a time, easing so cautiously into the chair across from Sylar. His eyes flick to the phone – maybe if he can get to it, dial before Sylar can stop him, the police can – no, not the police, Sylar would rip straight through them. But maybe if he called Bennet, or Hiro, someone still left in New York –

 

“I wouldn’t call for help if I were you,” says Sylar, conversationally, as he pours hot water into a mug, dropping in a teabag, sliding it in front of Mohinder. “I don’t think it would go well.”

 

“How are you alive?” Mohinder lifts his chin. “Hiro stabbed you. You should be  _dead_.”

 

Sylar almost  _flinches_  – and that surprises Mohinder more than anything. He sees Sylar’s hand drift to his middle, and all Mohinder can remember is Sylar’s form, crumpled and bloody, staining the concrete below.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Sylar deflects. “Drink your tea,” he suggests, nodding to the mug. “You know you’re not going to get back to sleep without it.”

 

Mohinder looks up to him, in surprise.

 

Sylar tilts his head. “You do remember how long I’ve had this hearing, haven’t you?”

 

Mohinder bites his lip. Sylar, with extremely sensitive hearing, on the road trip with Mohinder. In the hotel room next to him. And he could hear _everything_ …

 

Mohinder consciously unclenches his jaw, looking to the mug, his fingers curling around the handle. “It’s drugged, I assume?”

 

A smile flits across Sylar’s face. “Hardly,” he says, softly, “if I wanted to drug you, I could have a dozen times over,” and his eyes flick back to Mohinder’s, “last night.”

 

Mohinder freezes. “I thought it was a dream,” he says, though stiff lips.

 

Sylar sets down his own mug. “I wondered if you remembered,” he murmurs.

 

“You  _were_  there,” says Mohinder suddenly, “you were at the mall today,” and in an instant, Sylar is behind him, hands on Mohinder’s shoulders, a grip just a little too hard for comfort.

 

“I could hear your heart pounding,” Sylar whispers in his ear, “all the way across the room.”

 

Just like his heart is pounding now. Mohinder tries to get his breathing under control – oh, god, Sylar is so  _close_ , his breath hot on Mohinder’s skin, the blunt sliver of his nail digging in just above Mohinder’s collarbone.

 

“What do you want?” asks Mohinder, in desperation, “what do you  _want_ ,” trapped under Sylar’s fingertips, helpless – and Molly, sweet and innocent and so young, in the next room over –

 

“This isn’t a dream,” breathes Sylar, pressing a kiss under Mohinder’s jaw, in an echo of sensation from the night before. Mohinder closes his eyes, his throat working, a shiver dancing up his spine. “I’ll be watching you,” Sylar continues, so softly. “Sleep well, Mohinder.”

 

The hands release, as suddenly as they held, and Mohinder hears the creak of a window. He whirls, and the window, the way to the fire escape is open – the room, empty.

 

Mohinder shudders uncontrollably, falling from the chair to the floor, a hand clenching on the table leg.

 

He leaves the tea untouched on the table.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

Near noon, Mohinder still hasn’t stopped shaking. He’s managed to get Molly occupied, playing in her own room, but the tea – it’s still on the table, cold, the surface of the liquid shivering with the pass of Mohinder’s footsteps, back and forth, back and forth.

 

It’s proof that Sylar was here. Proof that Mohinder’s home was invaded the night before, proof and a threat, all at the same time.

 

_I’ll be watching you._

 

Mohinder seizes the mug and drops it, face-down, in the sink. The light-brown liquid swirls, drains away, and Mohinder’s hands clench on the edge of the sink.

 

The knock on the door makes Mohinder jerk, turn around too quickly. His elbow makes contact with a glass on the edge of the sink, toppling it to the floor. It doesn’t break, luckily, and he takes a long breath, steadying his nerves.

 

One look through the peephole shows Mohinder who’s outside – not that not that he expected Sylar to come in through the door anyhow, or to announce his presence by something as obvious as the doorbell. It isn’t Sylar; it’s Niki Sanders. With her husband DL, her son Micah. Safe enough.

 

Mohinder unfastens the chain, eases the door open, forcing a smile. “Hello.”

 

“Hey,” greets Niki. “You remember us, right?”

 

“Of course,” says Mohinder, relaxing a little. He gives a cursory glance, up and down the hallway, before he steps aside. “Come in, please,” and he opens the door wider.

 

“Is Molly around?” asks Micah, almost immediately after the door is shut. Mohinder smiles more easily, and nods toward the hallway. “She’s in her bedroom, second door on the left.”

 

Micah looks to Niki and she nods, gesturing for him to go ahead.

 

“Ah, would you like to sit down?” offers Mohinder, gesturing to the couch. “Something to drink, maybe?”

 

 _I’ll be watching you_.

 

“Is everything all right?” asks DL.

 

“It’s fine,” says Mohinder, automatically.

 

“Okaay,” drawls DL, glancing at Niki.

 

Niki shares the glance, then turns back to Mohinder, taking a breath. “Well, Micah’s been asking about Molly, you know, if they could get together again,” she explains. “We were wondering if you two wanted to go out with us today, let the two of them spend some time together. We’re not heading back toLas Vegas for another few days—”

 

Mohinder shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I have some work to do.”

 

Niki looks taken aback. “Oh, I see,” she says. “Well, then—”

 

“But,” says Mohinder, with an upraised finger, “I’m sure Molly would love to.”

 

Niki breaks into a grin. “We’d be glad to take her off your hands for a day or so.”

 

“Excellent,” says Mohinder.

 

Before they leave – for an overnight visit, which Mohinder agreed to, perhaps too easily – he pulls Niki aside. “Keep an eye out for anything unusual,” he murmurs, “I think Sylar may have survived.”

 

Niki’s eyes widen. “What have you—”

 

“I haven’t seen anything specific,” Mohinder lies, “but just be careful, all right?”

 

Niki nods, once.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

Mohinder doesn’t notice Sylar come in. He’s too absorbed, too focused, intent on his computer screen. No, the first thing he notices is the hand, burning into his back between his shoulder blades. Mohinder stills abruptly, his spine stiffening.

 

“I could have loved you, you know,” says Sylar, conversationally. “As Zane.”

 

“Zane Taylor was a lie,” says Mohinder, through gritted teeth, “and if you’re looking for the list, it’s not here.”

 

“I don’t want the list,” Sylar tells him.

 

“I’m not going to just let those people’s names into your—” Mohinder stops. “You don’t want…?” He turns, lifting his eyes to Sylar’s. If Sylar doesn’t want the list, then he must be after –

 

 _Molly_.

 

“What did you think I was after?” asks Sylar, with a smile. He moves in closer, dropping level to Mohinder’s face.

 

“Molly,” starts Mohinder –

 

“I don’t need her power,” says Sylar, cutting him off.

 

Mohinder turns half-away, but Sylar’s hand catches his jaw, turning him back to Sylar’s eyes – too intent, too piercing.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Mohinder,” says Sylar, in a bare whisper of air.

 

The reality of Sylar’s intentions hits Mohinder like a sack of bricks against his stomach, sudden, debilitating. He flattens his hand against Sylar’s chest. “Don’t do this,” and he hopes it comes out strong, steady, not as though he were pleading.

 

Sylar’s eyes darken. “You wanted me once,” and his hand slides to the side of Mohinder’s neck. “You looked at me, you watched me, and when you were alone –”

 

When he was alone, the room next to Sylar, in between cool sheets, with his hand clasped around straining flesh, the vision of Zane Taylor’s –  _Sylar’s_  – eyes and his hands was all Mohinder could see. And the brief stab of pleasure, semen on his fingers washed away by the flow of the hotel room sink – he must have gasped, Mohinder imagines, at the very moment of climax, and Sylar could hear every sound.

 

“Sylar,” but the man just moves closer, and somehow Mohinder can’t find the will to pull away. His fingers tighten, a little, in the cloth of Sylar’s shirt, painfully aware of his own racing heartbeat, the warm proximity of Sylar’s body.

 

Mohinder closes his eyes just before the kiss, tilting his head to bring Sylar in, parting his lips just enough to feel Sylar’s tongue sliding against his own. It’s dizzyingly intense, and Mohinder can barely manage to gasp for a breath of air against Sylar before Sylar’s tongue is in his mouth.

 

Sylar’s hands close around Mohinder’s biceps and he hauls Mohinder to his feet, pinning him against the wall.

 

Mohinder’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?”

 

“Trust me,” says Sylar, and Mohinder feels the world spin. For a moment, he thinks Sylar drugged him, maybe applied telekinetic pressure to his brain itself, but then he realizes that he’s lying flat on his back – on the  _wall_. With Sylar on top of him.

 

Mohinder fights the sudden wave of dizziness. He feels the brush of Sylar’s hands as they move to the buttons of his shirt, the jerk of cloth as each button comes undone. Sylar’s hands spread his thighs more open, Sylar’s fingers drifting across his skin. Mohinder squeezes his eyes shut, arching a little against the hard wood of the wall.

 

And then he feels it – like the uncontrollable twitch of a muscle, deep inside him. It’s like he’s touched a hot stove, a jerk of sensation almost too fast for his mind to catch before it’s gone. His blood pounds, and he hardens against the enclosure of his pants, the warmth of Sylar’s palm just barely bleeding through the denim.

 

“What,” Mohinder manages to gasp, but it happens again,  _again_ , as though there were hands deep inside him, tongues of cold and hot entwining through his center. “Oh,  _god_ ,” twisting underneath Sylar’s body in a kind of desperation he’s never known before. It’s everywhere, like a ghost, pressing just  _there_ , drifting up, stroking between his legs, inside his trapped erection –  _inside_.

 

Sylar is barely touching him now, his hands steady just below Mohinder’s arms, his eyes fixed on Mohinder’s face.

 

Mohinder cries out, with an amazing hunger, and he curls – but no, Sylar’s hands are there, pressing him back – down? – against the wall. “Relax,” soothes Sylar, “just feel.”

 

Feel –  _feel_. Mohinder chokes and a painful, drawn-out rapture floods his insides, like an orgasm, but so slow, so  _long_  –

 

Sylar moves up, bringing Mohinder close, and Mohinder turns his face into Sylar’s neck, clutching at him. He shrieks the force of it into Sylar’s shoulder, barely aware of the hands stroking, easing, soft and gentle. He doesn’t understand how Sylar can do this, can hold him right here, on a peak so exquisite Mohinder can’t think, can only feel – and they weren’t even skin-on-skin, this hadn’t taken any  _time_  – what more could Sylar do to him, given the chance?

 

“Mohinder,” he hears, just a whisper against his ear, and then there’s a new surge of pleasure, liquid lightning, and the finality of the orgasm shatters through Mohinder’s being, leaving him limp and shivering in Sylar’s arms, his sweat cloying on his skin.

 

Mohinder might have blacked out for a second, because the next thing he knows they’re in Mohinder’s bed, Sylar holding Mohinder close, spooned behind him. The same way they slept, when Mohinder thought it was just a dream –

 

A wave of heat rolls over Mohinder’s body.

 

“Too warm?” murmurs Sylar, and then his hand strokes up Mohinder’s stomach, leaving a cool trail in its wake.

 

Mohinder reaches, sliding his hand over Sylar’s, feeling it turn, feeling their fingers tangle together. Mohinder clasps tighter, and he closes his eyes.

 

Sylar is silent, as though struck dumb, and all he does is kiss Mohinder once, on the temple.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

When Mohinder awakens, it’s dark outside, and Sylar is still snug against him, under the covers. Mohinder turns his head slightly, and he sees Sylar’s eyes come open.

 

Of course, with that hearing, maybe even the minute change in Mohinder’s breathing would awaken him.

 

Mohinder shifts so that he’s facing Sylar, trying to find a hint of Sylar’s thoughts in that face, even shadowed and calculating as it is. But, no, he can’t see a thing; Sylar’s eyes are veiled, shrouded. Even so, Mohinder’s not afraid. He should be, he thinks, but he’s not – Sylar could kill him with a thought, but he hasn’t. He  _hasn’t_ , which means there must be something else at stake here.

 

Mohinder’s fingers trace the line of Sylar’s jaw, barely visible in the darkness. He sees Sylar’s eyes close, feels more than hears the soft noise from deep inside Sylar’s throat.

 

Sylar’s hand moves to cup Mohinder’s cheek, guiding him down to a kiss – one with an edge of want, just  _want_ , the likes of which Mohinder has never felt from anyone, much less Sylar. Mohinder greets Sylar’s tongue, feels the shyness in Sylar’s touch and he pulls back.

 

“What do you want from me?” Mohinder asks, something broken in his voice.

 

Sylar doesn’t answer, just regards him, for a long moment. “Come with me,” he says, finally, guiding Mohinder to his feet, leading him to the bathroom.

 

Sylar flicks on the shower, bringing Mohinder with him under the spray. A little too warm; Mohinder flinches at it, and the temperature dims, without either of them reaching for the tap.

 

Sylar kisses him, once, twice. “Do you want to feel it again?” he whispers, against Mohinder’s mouth.

 

Mohinder swallows – but the ‘no’, reflexive and automatic, dies in his throat. Sylar’s hand slides to Mohinder’s waist, and again, Mohinder feels the tug inside him, the rush of pleasure. Gentler than before, somehow, and Mohinder lets Sylar press him to the tile, arching his neck just so that Sylar can lick, lick to his pulse.

 

Mohinder shivers, convulsively. Oh, god, Sylar could have killed him a dozen, a hundred times over, each time they’d been alone, each time Mohinder was defenseless against him.

 

Sylar brings Mohinder’s knee up, fingers drifting lower, and Mohinder’s hands clench, unclench on Sylar’s arms – the whisper inside him, scraping along raw nerves, a twist of pleasure that he’s helpless to control. It’s not nearly as rough as earlier that night – it’s just enough, just barely enough that it makes Mohinder strain for a tiny bit more, spine tightening against the tile wall of the shower.

 

It’s then that he feels the stroke of fingers, against the puckered ring of muscle. Mohinder shudders at the stimulation, from inside, from out, just _everywhere_ , surrounding him, and invading him, and all he can do is give himself over. To  _Sylar_ …

 

Sylar’s fingers slip inside him, Sylar’s voice crooning in his ear, and Mohinder closes his eyes, mouth barely open. This is a killer, a murderer stripping away all of what Mohinder is, leaving barely the core, and Mohinder wants nothing more right now than to trust Sylar – with  _everything_.

 

Mohinder feels the skin of his neck grow cold, then numb, the water beading to ice on his skin. He gasps, in surprise more than anything else, and then he feels Sylar’s tongue licking, cracking the ice. The skin tingles in the sudden heat, and Mohinder arches mindlessly, so hard he can barely believe it. Fingers along with the strange pull inside him, twisting him too far, too much and too slow, all at the same time.

 

He can feel Sylar’s hands opening him up, tilting his hips, and in the part of his mind that still retains the laws of physics, he knows that this shouldn’t be possible, that the mechanics aren’t right and that he shouldn’t be able to hold his own weight, but then that’s just Sylar’s magic, isn’t it?

 

Mohinder keens, low and long, as Sylar slides inside, deeper and deeper, until the stretch is all Mohinder can feel, and the burn of possession is all he can taste. Sylar stills, then, holding Mohinder steady, letting him whimper it out, letting the pain fade. It doesn’t take long – it feels like the hands are still inside him, stroking along the inside of his body, finding the tight muscles and easing them, finding the hurt and soothing it away.

 

“Say my name,” says Sylar, raspy, barely audible over the soft rain of the shower water.

 

Mohinder bites his lip, trying to pull back to reality, trying to keep some modicum of control.

 

“ _Say it_ ,” hisses Sylar, and he bites, worrying soft skin with hard teeth.

 

“Sylar,” Mohinder pleads, and as soon as he does, the trickle of pleasure widens into a flood. “ _Sylar_ ,” he gasps, again, and he cries out, fighting against the ecstasy that threatens to pull him under. Every touch against his skin, every drop of water, every brush of Sylar’s fingers or contact with the tile against his back – it flares, brighter than the sun, drowning out Mohinder’s mind, Mohinder’s  _self_.

 

And then Mohinder is over the edge, convulsing and collapsing, the last of it sweeping through him faster than a tsunami.

 

Ever so careful, Sylar slips out of him, and Mohinder falls to the ground shaking.

 

“You are so beautiful,” breathes Sylar, and his voice isn’t steady either, but full of something Mohinder doesn’t quite understand. “ _So beautiful_ ,” and no, Mohinder doesn’t understand it now, but he will. He will.

 

Mohinder catches Sylar’s mouth, kissing him – and it’s not sweet, it’s not perfect. Sylar  _is_  a little too rough, isn’t quite right, but Mohinder lets it go. It doesn’t do to lie to himself about who this is, anyhow.

 

Afterwards, this time it’s Sylar who’s curled into Mohinder, snugged against his shoulder, eyes closed. And it’s Mohinder who pulls Sylar close, and who can’t seem to imagine what it would be to let him go.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

Mohinder wakes up at the noise of someone pounding on the door.

 

“Oh,  _shit_ ,” is the first thing he thinks to say, then he’s on the floor, pulling clothes together. Sylar is awake, Mohinder is sure, but he doesn’t spare a glance, rushing to answer the knock.

 

“Who is it?” he calls through the door.

 

“It’s us.”

 

Niki’s voice. Mohinder glances back over his shoulder, to the entrance to his room, but Sylar isn’t there. Not yet, anyhow. He looks through the peephole – Niki, DL, Bennet, Matt Parkman, and even Claire. But not Molly or Micah.

 

Mohinder’s stomach sinks.

 

He eases the door open partway. “Where’s Molly?” he asks, hand drifting to make sure his shirt is straight.

 

“You know, it’s funny,” says Niki. “After you warned me I asked her to find the Boogeyman, just to make sure.”

 

 _Oh, no_.

 

“And she said he was in your apartment.” Niki’s eyes are intent on him; to the side, Mohinder can see Bennet ease a gun all the way out of a holster at his hip.

 

“Is Sylar here?” asks Bennet, lowly. As though that would make any damn difference.

 

Are they  _insane_? Five of them, against Sylar – and Mohinder would put it at slightly uneven odds, in Sylar’s favor. They’re taking a huge gamble, and putting themselves at an amazing risk –

 

“Mohinder,” says Bennet, drawing Mohinder’s gaze back to him. “If you need help, you don’t have to say anything. Just nod.”

 

Mohinder senses more than hears the creak of the floorboards behind him. Sylar is there. Waiting.  _Danger_ , his mind screams at him, but Mohinder can’t tell anymore if the danger is in front of him or behind.

 

“He’s not here,” says Mohinder, finally, and he unwittingly makes contact with Parkman’s eyes.

 

Of course – the man is a telepath. Mohinder winces.

 

“He’s lying,” says Parkman.

 

And then it’s too late. Mohinder stumbles, tugged off his feet, and the next thing he knows Sylar’s arm is around him, something cold and sharp just barely brushing against the skin of Mohinder’s neck. Mohinder’s pulse threads – Sylar’s hold gives him no way to break out, but he’s still not afraid, he still doesn’t think Sylar is going to kill him.

 

The others, the five, spread in a semicircle, guns at the ready.

 

“Let him go,” demands Bennet.

 

“I don’t think I will,” Sylar shoots back. “Drop the guns, or he dies, and all of his research with him.”

 

Mohinder swallows, holding Bennet’s gaze  _– just do it_  – and finally, after an agonizing pause, Bennet nods, points his gun to the ground.

 

“You don’t think I could beat you?” taunts Sylar. “Even with five, you don’t stand a chance.”

 

“Don’t hurt them,” says Mohinder, so soft it’s barely vocalized, entirely too soft for any of the others in the room to hear.

 

Sylar’s arm tightens, just a fraction.

 

“ _Please_ ,” Mohinder whispers.

 

A pause, uncertain, then “as you wish,” in a breath of air against Mohinder’s ear. “Be seeing you, Mohinder,” murmurs Sylar, then he shoves Mohinder away from him, violently, suddenly. Mohinder ducks from the hail of bullets, and by the time he looks up, Sylar is gone.

 

Parkman rushes to the window, and hisses through his teeth. “I don’t see him,” he says.

 

“He can’t just have disappeared,” snaps DL, moving up beside him.

 

Parkman looks to Mohinder. “What happened here? What did he want?”

 

Mohinder’s mind races, to every science fiction book he’s read, every technique for blocking telepaths that fiction writers have conjectured. Disciplined thoughts, he remembers that, or nursery rhymes, nonsense patterns that occupy a telepath and render them unable to get to the thoughts underneath –

 

“What are you trying to hide?” asks Parkman, his brows furrowed.

 

So much for that. “I have no idea what he wants,” says Mohinder, honestly. “But we haven’t seen the last of him.”

 

“No,” admits Bennet, “I’d expect we haven’t.”


	2. Part 2

“Are you sure he didn’t say what he wanted?”

 

Mohinder lifts his eyes to Bennet, a little hiss of air escaping in his irritation. “I’m sure,” he drawls.

 

“He was there for hours,” says Bennet. “And he didn’t say anything in all that time.”

 

“He told me he wasn’t after Molly,” explains Mohinder, impatiently. “He said he wasn’t after the list. I don’t know what he was doing at my apartment.”

 

Mohinder takes a deep breath, consciously unclenches his jaw – they’re at Matt Parkman’s house, mostly because of Bennet’s insistence that they get defensive and get defensive fast. Sylar could be after any of them, or after Mohinder’s research, or both, and according to Bennet, the best way to defend everything is to gather it in one place.

 

Mohinder suspects, inside, that Sylar isn’t going to attempt to attack them this way, no, especially not with Mohinder’s whispered request. He’ll wait…

 

It slowly registers on Mohinder that Matt Parkman is watching him, with an odd look in his eyes. Mohinder jumps. Unfortunately, the first thing that jumps to mind is Sylar, in Mohinder’s kitchen, the empty gun on the table next to a cup of tea, a curl of steam idly rising towards the lights in the ceiling.

 

Drink your tea. You know you’re not going to get back to sleep without it.

 

“Drink your tea?” asks Matt, his brow furrowing.

 

Bennet looks up. “What?”

 

“Sylar gave him tea.”

 

Mohinder shifts, uncomfortable under their scrutiny. In a sudden move, he gets to his feet, facing Bennet. “Listen,” Mohinder snaps, “he did a lot of things and he didn’t explain any of them. I’m not the one you should be suspicious about, and this constant interrogation is giving me a headache.” He takes a breath. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s Molly’s bedtime.”

 

In the guest bedroom, there are two twin beds; Micah is already curled in the first, his eyes closed. Mohinder tucks Molly in, under the covers of the second, and he smiles away her fears.

 

“He won’t be able to get you,” reassures Mohinder, smoothing her hair away from her face. “He’d never attack us here, not with so many people. You’re perfectly safe.”

 

In the background, he can just barely hear a conversation between Parkman, and his wife—

 

“You brought those people here? Without asking me? Bad enough that you left the two children here—”

 

“It’s just temporary,” claims Parkman, his voice distorted by the wall in between. “They’re in danger, and we can help.”

 

“You’re putting us in danger!”

 

Mohinder forces his attention back to Molly. “Good night, Molly.”

 

“Good night, Mohinder.” Molly burrows a little under the covers, and Mohinder stands to leave.

 

Before he takes two steps, she calls, “Wait!” and Mohinder turns.

 

“What is it?” he asks.

 

Molly’s hand tightens on the covers. “Do you know any lullabies?” Her mouth twists. “My dad, he used to sing me to sleep sometimes.”

 

Mohinder quirks an eyebrow, settling back down next to Molly, on the bed. “Well, I know a few,” he admits, “but not many in English.”

 

“That’s fine,” she says, “please, Mohinder.”

 

Mohinder smiles. “Of course.”

 

It’s been a long time since Mohinder has sung in anything – his father told him it was a foolish pursuit, a useless talent that would never help Mohinder in real life. His father was wrong, of course, because Molly’s hand curls into Mohinder’s and holds on tight, and because he’s helping her, soothing her, and that’s really all that matters, isn’t it?

 

Mohinder’s voice isn’t perfectly steady, wavering on this note or that, but it’s low, and he hopes comforting, even though Molly doesn’t understand the Hindi words.

 

Of course.

 

Mohinder straightens his spine. He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before – Hindi. Matt Parkman’s telepathy is auditory, perceived similarly to the way schizophrenics perceive auditory hallucinations. That means that if Mohinder thinks in Hindi, than Parkman won’t understand a word…

 

Molly’s hand is relaxed in Mohinder’s, now, her breathing light and even as Mohinder lets the last note trail away. He pauses for a moment before he switches off the lamp, flooding the room with shadows.

 

“Sweet dreams,” says Mohinder, softly, even though he doesn’t think she’s awake to hear. He presses a kiss to her forehead, smoothes her hair one last time, and he moves towards the door.

 

As he eases the door shut, he catches a glint of light off of Micah’s eyes, and he hears the slam of another door, down the hallway.

 

Mohinder twists to see Parkman’s wife – he can’t recall her name – slumped against the wall, her jaw set, her arms crossed. Angry at her husband, and it looks like only the most recent in a line of arguments.

 

On the floor below, Niki sits against the wall, on the stairs, a gun on her lap.

 

“We shouldn’t all stay up,” says Mohinder, as he steps down next to her.

 

“I am,” says Niki, an ultimatum, no arguments allowed. Or perhaps it’s Jessica – isn’t Jessica the militant one, the fighter, who defends her son at any cost…

 

Mohinder nods to her, and he continues back to the living room. Claire is the only one here; she’s curled up in an armchair, a blanket over her shoulders. From her father, no doubt. Her adoptive father, that is – but there’s no doubt that Claire loves Noah Bennet, and that she does not love Nathan Petrelli.

 

Mohinder settles on the couch, and – finally – he lets himself panic.

 

Sylar – he spent a night (two nights) in Sylar’s arms, trusting – oh god, what Sylar could have done, what he’s probably planning to do –

 

Mohinder would never be able to live with himself if something happened to Molly. And this seems just Sylar’s style, to seduce Mohinder, to get him off guard, and at the right moment, to stab, twist in Mohinder’s weakness, and take what he really wants.

 

If Sylar had just wanted Molly, he could have killed her the first night, so if it’s Molly’s power he’s after, then it’s also torment, Mohinder’s torment. If it’s the list he’s after, then he’s being cautious, so that when he gets it, he’s sure it’s complete and correct because he’ll be sure that Mohinder trusts him, by then.

 

Mohinder closes his eyes.

 

Sylar is heartless. Sylar is a serial killer. Sylar murdered maybe dozens of innocent people, just to steal their powers, in a ruthless quest to be the next step, to be the best. And Sylar is sweet and his hands are warm and he held Mohinder so close…

 

Eventually, uncomfortable as he is, turbulent as his thoughts are, Mohinder falls asleep.

 

\- - - -

 

In his dreams, he wanders.

 

First it’s through a construction site, under a crane that arches towards the sky. He climbs a pile of rock, that gets bigger and bigger as he struggles upwards, then he slides down the other side as though the pile never existed at all.

 

Next it’s a train, and he sees Peter Petrelli, eyes closed, in a seat against the wall. Peter isn’t the one, no; Mohinder walks on, until he steps out from the back of the train and into the halls of a school.

 

“No,” he says, to himself, and he steps back through the door, to a baseball stadium, only the grass isn’t grass but a huge map, with lines and dots and Mohinder knows that this is the real map, this is everything he’s looking for in one, but he can’t quite focus on it, and there are people in his way. He ducks out, intending to come back in through another entrance, but he can’t find his way back.

 

Instead, Mohinder wanders through a crowded marketplace, the noise of barter echoing in his ears, but this isn’t what he’s looking for.

 

What is he looking for?

 

And he realizes that he’s seeking. That all this time, he’s been seeking, looking for something just beyond his grasp, and the map wasn’t it.

 

Mohinder stops, on a wide-open plain, and he knows what he’s been looking for – of course he knows, he’s known it all along.

 

Mohinder turns around, and Sylar is there, waiting.

 

“Where have you been?” asks Mohinder.

 

“Here,” says Sylar. “I’ve always been here.”

 

And Mohinder opens his eyes.

 

\- - - -

 

“Wake up,” says Claire.

 

Mohinder blinks. “Ah, good morning to you.” He glances around – still dark outside, but with the hint of light over the horizon that speaks of dawn.

 

“Dad’s going to get some rest,” Claire explains. “He wants us to go on watch.”

 

Watch. As though this were a military camp. Mohinder almost laughs – but, no, this is probably as serious as it gets.

 

And if he’d just slept an instant longer, he’d have reached out his hand, and Sylar would have reached out his, and Mohinder can’t think why that seems so important, but it does, it does.

 

Claire and Mohinder take seats at the table, in a good position to keep an eye on the back porch. A brief hug between Claire and her father, and they’re alone.

 

There’s an awkward pause, at first, and then they both start to speak at once.

 

“I think,” begins Mohinder, and “I was wondering,” says Claire, and they both stop, with a tight, nervous laugh.

 

Mohinder gestures to her. “Please, you first.”

 

She takes a breath. “You seem like you’re the only one that isn’t terrified,” she says. “I mean, Niki Sanders is angry, Janice Parkman is upset, and my dad—” Claire breaks off. “It seems like all any of them are doing is pretending they’re not afraid.”

 

Mohinder settles back against the chair. “I don’t know,” he says, reflexively, then reconsiders. “I suppose out of all of us, I’m the only one who’s ever been alone with him, and lived to tell the tale.” He looks to Claire. “It was a road trip – I was trying to find others with…ah – talent, from the list produced by my father’s research. I went to the first name on the list, Zane Taylor, but Sylar had been there first.”

 

“You found him murdered?” asks Claire.

 

“No,” says Mohinder, “I found him alive, and well, and he asked to come with me, to help me find these talented people.” He pauses, breathes. “It was much later that I realized who I met wasn’t Zane Taylor at all.”

 

“Oh my god,” says Claire. “You traveled with Sylar that whole time?”

 

“I trusted him,” Mohinder tells her, simply. “And when I found him out I tried to restrain him, and failed – and he killed Peter, right in front of me.” Mohinder half-laughs. “I’m just glad it didn’t take.”

 

Claire bites her lip, and her gaze drops. “Sylar almost killed me,” she says, softly. “Instead, he murdered one of my friends – just because he thought she had a power that he wanted.”

 

“Just when I thought I knew him,” murmurs Mohinder, “he…” and his voice trails off.

 

“He what?” asks Claire.

 

“He called me,” says Mohinder, and it’s clear, like cold water dashed over his mind.

 

Mohinder gets to his feet too fast, the chair scraping across the floor.

 

“What is it?” asks Claire, standing.

 

“He’s here,” decides Mohinder. “He’s here, he’s out there, and he’s been listening to us this entire time.”

 

Claire looks to the door, her eyes wide. “How do you know?”

 

“I know,” Mohinder states.

 

“Okay,” she says, “I’ll get Dad.”

 

Barely five minutes later, they’re all in the kitchen – Parkman, still waking up, Bennet, Niki, DL, Claire. And Mohinder, fingers interlaced, eyes fixed on the table.

 

“You can’t be sure that Sylar is out there,” says Parkman.

 

“He is,” says Mohinder. “He’d want to hear what we’re talking about, what we’re saying about him. He’s close. I’m certain of it.”

 

“All right,” says Bennet, hissing air through his teeth. “First off, we’ll—”

 

“No,” Mohinder interrupts. “Write it down.” At their blank looks, “He has very sensitive hearing. Write it down, so he doesn’t know what you’re saying.”

 

“Parkman?” asks Bennet.

 

“Ah, sure,” and Parkman rubs his eyes. He slides open a drawer, takes a legal pad from inside and hands it to Bennet, snatching a pen from a jar on the counter.

 

“Thanks,” and Bennet starts writing.

 

When he’s done, he slides it to Parkman.

 

“I honestly cannot tell what this says,” Parkman tells him.

 

Claire sighs. “Dad, you keep forgetting,” she chides, “only people with long practice can read your handwriting.” She takes the pen and the paper and peruses it, pausing every once in a while to rewrite a word, in curved, perfect lettering.

 

“Oh, I get it,” says Parkman.

 

“Let me see,” from Mohinder, and then the plan is conveyed, ever so slowly, person-by-person.

 

Split up in pairs, search the outside for Sylar. He can’t silence you both at once – one of you yell, others get there quickly. He can’t beat all of us, and we won’t be very far away. Don’t venture off the property. Wait until your eyes adjust to the light –

 

Claire and Parkman, stay behind at the house. Bennet and Mohinder, to the back yard; Niki and DL to the front.

 

And gradually, everyone agrees.

 

\- - - -

 

Now, Mohinder is afraid.

 

Before, it didn’t seem real – hiding from Sylar, defending a suburban house. It seemed ridiculous, and Mohinder knew that Sylar didn’t plan to hurt them, not really, but now –

 

Now it’s taken on all the reality of a horror movie, where, dark and alone, every person has to fend for themselves. It doesn’t help that Bennet is at his shoulder, or that the moonlight is brighter than usual. It’s night, it’s unknown, and in the face of the unknown, as Mohinder knows, the brain creates legends, illusions to keep itself alert.

 

Alert, in evolutionary terms, meaning afraid.

 

Mohinder’s eyes sweep the back yard, but there’s honestly no place he sees that Sylar could be hiding. The yard is empty, and it feels empty, but his heart is pounding all the same.

 

No matter what, Sylar knows exactly where they are…

 

Bennet taps Mohinder’s shoulder, and he starts to form a gesture – and Mohinder’s eyes flick to the roof above.

 

The roof above, where Sylar is crouched, on the bare edge.

 

Mohinder’s eyes widen, and it happens too fast to tell. All he knows is that so quickly – so quickly – Bennet is on the ground, unconscious (not dead, still breathing) and Sylar has Mohinder against the wall of the house, pressing into him more places than not. The skin-on-skin contact ignites a tender, slow fire inside Mohinder (if he were going to scream, now would be the time) and when Sylar kisses him, Mohinder kisses back, meets him heat for heat, passion for passion.

 

This is desperation, it’s want, it’s lust and need and things that Mohinder doesn’t want to think about, but it’s also perfect, and it makes his blood pound and his muscles tense, and there are hands, hands everywhere, sliding up under his shirt, clasping the side of his neck. He feels like a teenager again, when this wasn’t about finesse but closer and more, and he barely chokes the moan into silence when Sylar moves to Mohinder’s neck, kisses him just under his jaw.

 

Mohinder guides Sylar back to his mouth, hands clasping at the raging warmth of Sylar’s body, and he wants nothing more, nothing more—

 

“Come with me, Mohinder,” breathes Sylar, against Mohinder’s mouth.

 

“What?” gasps Mohinder, trying to breathe.

 

“These people mean nothing,” Sylar growls, biting at Mohinder’s mouth, licking inside, tangling them so close together that Mohinder can hardly tell where one ends and the other begins. “Think what we could do together, the things we could accomplish –”

 

“The people we could kill?” finishes Mohinder, a little too harshly. His hand tightens on Sylar’s shoulder.

 

“Mohinder,” and Sylar’s voice is almost pleading.

 

“I’m not leaving Molly,” says Mohinder, through gritted teeth.

 

“She’s holding you back,” returns Sylar.

 

“I care about her.”

 

At that there’s a hunger in Sylar’s eyes, a hunger that Mohinder can almost feel cloying the air, a hunger that Mohinder can taste when they come together again, heavy and dark on Sylar’s tongue.

 

“Get away from these people,” insists Mohinder, lowly, “get out of here.”

 

“Mohinder—”

 

Sylar isn’t expecting it; that’s the only reason Mohinder gets away with it. He’s not expecting an attack, and Mohinder’s punch takes him entirely by surprise. He sprawls, knocked to the ground, his hand moving to his chest, to the site of Mohinder’s hit, a noise of pain escaping from his mouth.

 

When he pulls his hand away, there’s a trace of blood on his palm.

 

“He’s here!” shouts Mohinder. “Sylar’s here!”

 

Sylar looks up at him, shocked, and he hesitates for just an instant too long. Mohinder glances away to see if Niki and DL are here yet, and when he looks back, Sylar is gone, with the bare rustle of leaves to show that he ever passed through.

 

Bennet groans, on the ground, and Mohinder rushes to him, hoping to God that Bennet didn’t hear any of the conversation between him and Sylar.

 

\- - - -

 

Once inside, with Bennet holding an icepack to his head – a telekinetic blow, Mohinder guesses, though he can’t know for sure – Mohinder tells them it’s over.

 

“He got what he came for,” Mohinder lies, mind racing. In Hindi.

 

“And what was that?” asks Niki, crossing her arms.

 

“The list,” because Mohinder honestly can’t think of anything else to tell them.

 

“What?” Bennet snaps; Niki’s eyes flash; Claire drops the container of hydrogen peroxide.

 

“Don’t worry,” says Mohinder, “it was coded, encrypted. It’s incredibly complex, and it’s impossible to break.”

 

“Well, forgive me for being worried,” drawls Bennet, “but Sylar has done far too many impossible things for me to be comfortable with that.”

 

“He can’t break it,” states Mohinder, flatly. “And he can keep occupied trying as long as he wants.” Meanwhile, his hands drift to the legal pad, and he writes four words, fast and clear.

 

Niki spots the words, and her eyes widen. Mohinder turns the pad around and slides it to a stop in front of Bennet.

 

The list was fake.

 

Bennet looks back up to Mohinder. “You had better be right about this,” he says, warning in his tone.

 

“I’m right,” and Mohinder really, really hopes Parkman isn’t in his head. “And that was all he came for. He wouldn’t attack any of us, now – you must know, we’re the only ones in the world who are truly dangerous to him, and he won’t risk provoking us any further.”

 

And Mohinder really, really hopes that makes sense to Bennet.

 

“Fine,” says Bennet, “fine.”

 

\- - - -

 

Later that night, Molly secure in her room, Mohinder collapses against the headboard of his bed, eyes staring unseeing to the wall.

 

He can’t help seeing it again, over and over – Sylar’s shock, Sylar’s pain, Sylar’s blood, beading the palm of his hand. Mohinder hit Sylar where it hurt, where it hurt badly, and he’d done it on purpose. It feels underhanded, wrong in a way Mohinder can’t quite articulate to himself.

 

As Mohinder curls under the covers and turns out the light, his hearing is alert, for any noise, for anything that might indicate someone else inside the apartment. He stays there awake for some time, waiting, but there’s nothing.

 

Eventually, he sleeps.

 

\- - - -

 

“That girl better be yours.”

 

Mohinder glances up, to the eyes of a woman, jaw clenched, arms crossed. “Excuse me?” he asks, politely.

 

The woman gestures to Molly, who moves closer to Mohinder, taking his hand. “She had better be yours,” the woman says, “or I’m calling the police.”

 

Mohinder’s jaw goes slack. “She-she, uh, she’s adopted.”

 

“Can you prove it? Do you have adoption papers?”

 

“What, do you think I kidnapped her?” Mohinder asks in disbelief.

 

The woman slides her hands to her hips. “You know what it looks like,” she says, as though it’s obviously Mohinder’s fault. “A girl like her, with someone like you.”

 

And then it registers on Mohinder – Molly’s light skin, his darker. And the woman, full of stupid prejudices, who’s unwittingly put Mohinder and Molly in the worst danger she possibly could. Because Bennet hasn’t given the adoption papers, and if this woman insists – if she insists –

 

“Of course I have adoption papers,” says Mohinder, getting to his feet, trying to push injured pride into his bluff. “At my apartment.”

 

The woman raises her chin. “Then take me to your apartment, and let’s see.”

 

Damnit. “I, uh,” starts Mohinder.

 

“Is there a problem?”

 

The voice is mild, unthreatening. It’s the voice of a concerned neighbor, of an aunt or an uncle; a voice you can trust.

 

It makes Mohinder’s blood run cold. He looks up, at Sylar – the owner of the voice.

 

“I hope not,” says the woman, primly, “but this man can’t prove that this little girl is his.”

 

“Of course he can’t,” says Sylar, with an easy smile. “This is Molly, she’s my daughter.”

 

“Oh, I see,” says the woman, taken aback. “Are-are you sure?”

 

“Absolutely.” Sylar takes Mohinder’s hand, wrapping their fingers together. “Mohinder, I think it’s time we should be going back, don’t you?”

 

Mohinder is frozen. Sylar could take Molly, right now, he could –

 

“Mohinder,” says Sylar, a little stronger.

 

“Yes,” and Mohinder forces a smile, returning Sylar’s grip on his hand. “It is.”

 

Mohinder glances down to Molly, and he sees her eyes wide with mindless fear. Sylar – Sylar killed her parents, and he almost killed her, and right now he’s here, strolling beside them, as though nothing ever happened.

 

“They say the best way to lie is with the truth,” says Sylar, mildly. “But sometimes pure lies work just as well.”

 

“Molly,” Mohinder forces out, “why don’t you walk ahead a little. Sylar and I are going to talk.”

 

“Mohinder, I don’t want to,” says Molly, in a rush of air.

 

“Molly, it’s going to be fine,” says Mohinder, dropping down next to her. “I just need to talk to him. Nothing’s going to happen to you, or to me either.” He tries not to concentrate, tries not to think of the feel of the material passing from his hand to hers.

 

Molly takes one step back, then another, then she runs a short distance away, not looking back over her shoulder.

 

Mohinder slowly straightens, and he feels Sylar’s hand move around his waist, pull him in close. “You hit me,” Sylar hisses. “You set them on me –”

 

“You killed my father,” snaps Mohinder. “And you nearly killed Peter Petrelli, while you pinned me to the ceiling—”

 

“My mistake,” says Sylar, through gritted teeth. “I didn’t intend to leave him alive.”

 

Mohinder looks to Sylar. “How can you say that?”

 

“If I’d killed him then,” says Sylar, “then think what could have been prevented. There never would have been any risk. Peter Petrelli would be dead, Nathan Petrelli would be alive, and the city wouldn’t even have been at risk.”

 

“You couldn’t have known that,” Mohinder shoots back, “you wanted to kill him, you wanted his power.”

 

“His power nearly killed him,” says Sylar. “I could have used it, I could have controlled it.”

 

And what was it Sylar had said – Turns out you’re the villain, Peter. I’m the hero. He’d said it with such victory, as though it vindicated everything that he had done.

 

They say the best way to lie is with the truth –

 

And from anyone outside, they would look like two lovers, out for a walk, nothing harmless, nothing at all –

 

You have no idea how alone I used to feel. How insignificant. You’ve given me hope.

 

Was that a lie? Was there a truth in it?

 

“That’s it, isn’t it,” says Mohinder, in wonder. “You wanted to be the hero, didn’t you?”

 

Sylar looks to Mohinder, wary.

 

“You wanted to be justified,” continues Mohinder. “You wanted someone—” And he stops. “Someone to forgive you for what you’ve done.”

 

Sylar turns, twists to the side, his eyes tracking. He must have heard something – Mohinder follows his gaze, and it lights on Matt Parkman, and Noah Bennet. Heading straight for them.

 

Thank you, Molly.

 

“Looks like she used the cell phone you gave her,” says Sylar, fixing his eyes to Mohinder’s. “Smart girl.”

 

Mohinder inhales. “You saw it?”

 

“Of course I saw it,” says Sylar, conversationally. He touches Mohinder’s cheek. “I heard her dialing.”

 

“Why?” breathes Mohinder.

 

“You’re going to come with me,” Sylar tells him.

 

“Molly—”

 

“She’ll be taken care of,” says Sylar. “And this is more important.”

 

“I won’t,” says Mohinder, jaw clenched. “You can’t do this. You can’t walk into my life and destroy it.”

 

“Why not?” returns Sylar. “You destroyed mine.”

 

As though they were miles away, Mohinder can hear Bennet’s shouts, Parkman’s shouts. Clearing the park. Getting the civilians away from the battle that is to come. Sylar doesn’t look – he cups Mohinder’s jaw, rests a hand on Mohinder’s waist.

 

“What is there for you here?” Sylar asks. “The life of one girl – but think of the lives you’ll save if you’ll come with me.” He tilts his head, and Mohinder is paralyzed, caught in Sylar’s gaze. “You’ll come with me, Mohinder, because you think you can save me.”

 

“You’re beyond saving,” Mohinder insists.

 

“You don’t believe that,” Sylar shoots back.

 

Mohinder stops, and he looks towards Bennet, as the man pulls Molly out of the park, out of harm’s way. He sees Molly shout, but he can’t hear her voice.

 

When Mohinder turns back, Sylar catches his mouth, kisses him, and this is everything, this is life searing in Mohinder’s veins, death closing like a vise around his heart. He would stay in this kiss forever.

 

“I can’t forgive you,” Mohinder says, so softly.

 

“Not today,” returns Sylar, and he reaches out a hand towards the tire chips that pad the playground underneath the swing set, the slides. For a moment, Mohinder doesn’t know what he’s doing; then, the chips explode upwards, hurtling towards Bennet, towards Parkman. A screen, for their escape.

 

Mohinder watches for half a second, stunned, and then Sylar’s hand closes around his. “Come on,” calls Sylar, a light in his eyes that Mohinder has seen before – but only when Sylar was Zane Taylor.

 

Mohinder’s heart breaks; and when Sylar runs, he follows.


	3. Part 3

The hotel door clicks shut behind them – the outside world cut off, leaving them alone.

 

Mohinder takes in a shuddering breath – oh god, what has he done – and he feels Sylar press him the one step back, against the door. But Sylar doesn’t do anything else, just waits, for one heartbeat, two, three, until Mohinder lifts his eyes.

 

Caught, trapped – Mohinder can’t pull away, he can’t look away, and Sylar doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even  _blink_.

 

Mohinder can’t imagine how Molly must feel, either, or whether it’s Bennet and Claire taking care of her or Matt Parkman and his wife or Niki and DL, and how alone she must be, how hurt, how scared…

 

Just as it gets to be too much, Sylar presses his lips to Mohinder’s, dry and shallow. Mohinder’s eyes close; for just an instant they come apart, just barely, just  _barely_ , and the tension inside Mohinder stretches to an ache.

 

“After all this time,” breathes Sylar, “I  _finally_  have you,” and his hands slide up Mohinder’s ribs, he inhales in the crook of Mohinder’s neck, as though he can’t believe it, can’t believe that Mohinder is really there, that he agreed to –

 

What was it Mohinder agreed to? Share Sylar’s life? To travel with him, run from the FBI, maybe, or stay with him as he finds new victims, murders again?

 

Mohinder shivers, and his shirt tugs free from his body, as though on its own, and Sylar kisses Mohinder,  _really_  kisses him, deep and single-minded and open, as though Mohinder is everything to him. Goose bumps tingle across Mohinder’s skin, whether from the cold of the air conditioning or the intensity of Sylar’s focus, he doesn’t know.

 

“You’re cold,” says Sylar, conversationally, as he guides Mohinder across the room to the bed. “But you’ll be warm soon.”

 

The hotel room is disorganized; Mohinder focuses on that. Disorganized. Sylar has been living here, for day, weeks maybe. There are clothes on the floor, and one of the beds is unmade, with rumpled sheets – _bloodstained_  – and Sylar tips Mohinder back on the other bed, Mohinder’s jeans slipping away just as easily as his shirt.

 

Mohinder turns partway to the side, his pulse threading, half afraid and half transfixed, hypnotized, in Sylar’s pull and helpless to break away. He couldn’t, though, even if he wanted to, because he agreed to this, he did, and Sylar wasn’t going to hurt him, he’s safe here. He might, maybe, even be able to  _trust_ Sylar—

 

Sylar settles over him, skin against skin, and he kisses Mohinder, again and again, until it’s all Mohinder can feel – the slide of Sylar’s tongue, the tender brushes of Sylar’s fingertips, the catches in Mohinder’s own breath. Mohinder lets himself forget that he’s not supposed to want this, lets himself forget everything he’s leaving behind by being here, and finally he gives in completely, with a gasp against Sylar’s mouth, a tension that bleeds from his frame.

 

“What do you like, Mohinder?” murmurs Sylar, retreating just a little. “What do you want me to do?”

 

“What?” Mohinder asks, and his eyes widen as the impact of the question hits him – as though Mohinder could hand him a piece of paper, rattle it off like a grocery list, tell Sylar in concrete terms what he wants from a partner in sex. “Ah, I don’t know,” more of a question than a statement.

 

Sylar half-smiles, and he presses a kiss to the edge of Mohinder’s jaw. “We’ll have to find out, then,” he whispers, and a tremor runs through Mohinder’s body.

 

In an instant, Sylar is between Mohinder’s legs, fingers tracing the curve of the inside of his thigh, tongue easing the way, hot to the touch but then cool in the trail of saliva left behind. It’s so close – so  _close_ , and Mohinder aches from the desire he can’t control. “Sylar,” he barely vocalizes, in a near-silent plea, and Sylar’s hands stroke up between his legs, to the sensitive skin just  _there_  – and then there’s a sudden, violent squeeze inside Mohinder.

 

The white heat jolts through Mohinder’s frame and he squirms – or, he would have, if he’d been able to move, if Sylar hadn’t held him down, if Sylar hadn’t slid his mouth just over the head of Mohinder’s swollen erection.

 

Mohinder bites his lip and his eyes close, his spine tight, his hand fisted in the sheets. He can’t move, and isn’t sure how he would if he could. Sylar’s telekinesis is opening him up, stretching the tight ring of muscles – preparing him, and at that thought Mohinder sparks with a rare hunger – and to get away from that stimulation would bring him further down Sylar’s throat, envelope him more, and he’s not sure how much more he can  _take_ …

 

Mohinder glances down, and Sylar is watching him, too-dark eyes fixed on every breath, every heartbeat, every shiver.

 

A cry tears itself from Mohinder’s throat and he’s just there,  _just_  there – when Sylar retreats and moves above him. No stimulation, nothing except that relentless, unchanging pressure deep inside.

 

Mohinder struggles against it, but the pleasure advances anyway, pulling him under bit by bit. His eyes dart up to Sylar’s, and Sylar strokes his cheek.

 

“Come for me, Mohinder,” says Sylar, softly, and Mohinder convulses, Sylar’s mouth seizing his, swallowing the shocked ecstasy, anchoring Mohinder even as his senses spiral out of control.

 

Mohinder comes back to himself slowly, taking a long time to consciously register that he and Sylar are still kissing – but kissing so long, so deep, that it seems they could stay right here just this side of forever.

 

Finally, after Mohinder has remembered how to breathe again, Sylar shifts, bringing Mohinder’s back to his chest. Mohinder has enough mental faculties to guess what Sylar is doing and he says, “ _Sylar_ ,” in a protest, but then the thought is scattered in the burn of penetration.

 

Mohinder can’t remember Sylar using any kind of preparation, but it doesn’t seem to matter, there’s no resistance, and it’s not long before he’s resting back, practically in Sylar’s lap, his head back against Sylar’s shoulder. He moans softly – it doesn’t hurt, maybe some discomfort, but it’s so overshadowed, so completely swallowed by the gentleness, the touch of Sylar’s lips on the side of his neck, the rush of being taken and having it be by choice.

 

It’s such a rush, a euphoria that takes him past the pleasure to a place he’s never been before – but at the same time, he’s so very here, so very alive, and he’s almost certain that Sylar can feel it too.

 

Sylar’s hands shift on Mohinder’s hips, and somewhere in the long, measured strokes, Mohinder turns his head into Sylar’s neck, breathing, just breathing.

 

“Mohinder,” and Sylar kisses Mohinder – an awkward angle, but somehow it serves to relax Mohinder further, drive Sylar deeper inside him. Mohinder whines, and he arches into it, feeling Sylar’s breath catch, feeling the half-groan that Sylar can’t hold back.

 

 _You’re mine_ , thinks the part of Mohinder that can still think,  _as much as I’m yours_ , and Sylar’s hands clench and he muffles a noise into the nape of Mohinder’s neck.

 

It’s the first time he’s really felt it, Sylar’s pleasure, when before he was too overwhelmed by his own to pay attention. It hits home, then, and Mohinder shudders in a kind of second orgasm, just from the thrill of it.

 

Sylar slips free, and Mohinder turns his face into the crook of Sylar’s neck – he can feel the trembling muscles underneath. Sylar’s breath is warm against his temple; Sylar’s hand tangles in his hair, and that’s the last thing Mohinder remembers.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

Mohinder awakens to the sound of the television.

 

He realizes that Sylar is sitting up, against the headboard, next to him, eyes not on the television but past it, vacant. Looking at something no one else could see.

 

“What time is it?” asks Mohinder, blearily.

 

“Four-thirteen AM,” says Sylar. He shakes his head a little, as though he were the one waking up, and looks down at Mohinder. “Do you want me to turn it down?” with a gesture at the television.

 

“Are you even watching it?” asks Mohinder, shifting up a little.

 

Sylar shrugs. “It’s background noise,” he says. “Drowns it out.”

 

“Drowns what out?”

 

“Everything,” says Sylar, shortly. “A hundred heartbeats, a hundred nightmares.”

 

Mohinder studies Sylar’s face, but it’s blank, distant as always. There are no answers there. “Why did you call me?” he asks, suddenly. “When you found out—”

 

Sylar shakes his head. “It was a mistake,” he says.

 

“That’s not what I asked,” counters Mohinder.

 

Instead of responding, Sylar shifts down, resting his head on Mohinder’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter,” he deflects, and he looks towards the television, as though expecting Mohinder to do the same.

 

The question is important, Mohinder can feel it. If he can just drag Sylar’s reasoning out of him, then –

 

Not tonight, though. Not tonight; if Sylar doesn’t want to say, he’s not going to.

 

Mohinder catches a glimpse of an angry red scar, just over the line of the hotel sheets. He remembers the other bed, bloodstained, and he resists the urge to look; instead, he pulls the sheet away, and traces the line of the scar with bare fingertips, one neat, perfect stitch at a time. Sylar closes his eyes, making a soft noise in the depths of his throat.

 

“Who did this?” asks Mohinder.

 

“The hospital,” Sylar murmurs.

 

“You should have lost too much blood to get there,” says Mohinder, fingers on the last stitch. He starts to pull away, but Sylar catches his hand.

 

“Keep doing that,” Sylar tells him. “It doesn’t hurt so much when you do.”

 

So Mohinder does, stroking feather-light, as delicate as he can. Eventually, Sylar’s breath evens, and Mohinder closes his eyes.

 

He falls asleep with his fingertips still resting on Sylar’s scar.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

Mohinder wakes up, again, to the noise of the television, which he left on, the night before. It’s a commercial, something about an energy drink, and Mohinder reaches for the remote, ready to turn it off, before something stops him.

 

Sylar is still asleep – even Mohinder’s motion didn’t wake him – and Mohinder is reluctant, suddenly.

 

Mohinder eases out from the bed, pulling his clothes on – bad planning. He’s going to have to get new ones, and that requires money, even though Sylar would probably rather steal them than pay for them.

 

Mohinder is sure to grab one of the two hotel room keys before he slips out the door.

 

Luckily, there’s a tiny grocery store around the corner open, and a used clothing store next to that. Mohinder takes five minutes to find a couple changes of clothing, then he picks out enough food for breakfast. He finds an ATM, and withdraws the maximum limit – Bennet would probably be able to trace it, but, then again, Bennet could just ask Molly about Mohinder and Sylar’s location, so Mohinder doubts he’s really changing anything.

 

When he gets back to the room, Sylar is awake, awake and waiting, twirling the remaining room key around his fingers.

 

“I brought us some breakfast,” says Mohinder, sliding the bag onto the wood of the table.

 

Sylar doesn’t move, his eyes focused on some point in the distance.

 

“Sylar,” says Mohinder. “I wasn’t leaving.”

 

“I know,” says Sylar, “you took one of the room keys.” He turns his gaze to Mohinder.

 

“I used an ATM,” Mohinder tells Sylar, “and Molly will be able to find us, so we should get moving as soon as possible.”

 

“Who said I was planning to leave New York?” asks Sylar.

 

“It’s not safe to stay,” returns Mohinder.

 

“Nothing is  _safe_ ,” snaps Sylar, and Mohinder flinches.

 

“I suppose,” says Mohinder, softly.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

“You drive.”

 

Mohinder tries the handle of the car door, and it comes open in his hand. “You left this unlocked?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

 

Sylar shoots him a look. “No,” he says, with no further explanation.

 

Right, of course. Mohinder slides into the driver’s seat, makes a few quick adjustments of the mirrors, and pauses. “You know, if I’m going to drive, I need the keys,” he tells Sylar.

 

Sylar waves a hand and the engine purrs.

 

“Is this car even yours?” asks Mohinder.

 

“Maybe I lost the keys in the sewer,” says Sylar.

 

Mohinder inhales. “Where to?”

 

“Does it matter?” returns Sylar.

 

“No,” muses Mohinder, “I suppose not.”

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

“How long has it been since you’ve had a full night of sleep?” asks Mohinder, after they’ve been driving in silence for nearly an hour.

 

“I slept last night,” Sylar dismisses.

 

“You woke me up at four in the morning,” says Mohinder. “That doesn’t seem very healthy.”

 

“Four-thirteen,” Sylar corrects, idly.

 

“Humans need sleep to function,” Mohinder tells him.

 

“Maybe I’m not human anymore.”

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

Four hours in, Mohinder pulls off the road at a rest area. When Sylar steps out of the car, he cocks his head.

 

“Do you hear that?” he asks.

 

“Hear what?” asks Mohinder.

 

“Nothing,” says Sylar, but a half-smile just barely curls the corner of his mouth.

 

Mohinder fights a stab of wistful jealousy – because Sylar has something he can never have, another level of perception that Mohinder can never experience.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

“One room or two?” asks the bored girl at the desk, fingers idly tracing the stenciled ‘MANAGER’ on her collar.

 

“One, please,” says Mohinder.

 

She looks up, a little curious now. “One bed or two?”

 

“Ah,” says Mohinder.

 

“One,” Sylar steps in, decisive.

 

The gum falls from the mouth of the boy behind the counter. He curses and ducks down, hunting for it on the floor.

 

Sylar’s hand curls around Mohinder’s, and Mohinder smiles.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

They’re passing what’s more of a club than a restaurant when Sylar stops, his head tilting to the side. “Here,” says Sylar, and he pulls Mohinder in behind him.

 

From the instant they get inside, Mohinder is listening to the woman onstage. There’s something strangely compelling about her singing – quiet, accompanied only by the piano – that draws him in.

 

After they get a table, “Amazing, isn’t she?” Sylar murmurs.

 

“What?” asks Mohinder.

 

“Mohinder,” chides Sylar, “you can feel it, can’t you?”

 

And now that Sylar points it out, Mohinder  _can_  feel it – like an echo, just buried beneath his perception. A painful, transient echo, pulsing next to the music itself.

 

“What is it?” Mohinder asks. “Sound manipulation, or lights—”

 

“Emotion,” says Sylar.

 

Emotion. That would make her talented – it would make her an empath. One from the next generation of human evolution. Mohinder closes his eyes, and he can just perceive it – her words, like a delicate breeze across a shivering leaf.

 

Sylar’s breath is harsh against Mohinder’s ear. “I could make you special, you know,” says Sylar, almost idly. “It could be you – you could have the whole room at your command, with a word, with a breath.” A brief pause, then, “Do you want that, Mohinder?”

 

“You’re sick,” mutters Mohinder.

 

“That would make it easier, wouldn’t it?” asks Sylar, softly.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

“Why did you call me?” Mohinder asks. He has a feeling this is the first step, that if Sylar tells him this much then things might be okay.

 

Sylar hesitates before he answers. “I didn’t want to believe.”

 

 _Believe what?_  thinks Mohinder, but a half-truth is better than nothing. He feels Sylar’s hand slip around his waist, and they walk like that, all the way back to the hotel.


	4. Part 4

When Mohinder awakens, he’s alone.

 

Really alone. The bathroom is empty, both of the beds are empty. Sylar is gone.

 

He stretches, gingerly, easing out kinks in aching muscles, and he slips out of the bed, getting to his feet. A quick check confirms it –  _both_  of the hotel keys are gone, meaning Sylar is coming back. Also, not-so-subtly hinting that Mohinder shouldn’t go anywhere while he’s gone.

 

Mohinder sighs, and he pads to the bathroom, splashing a handful of water on his face.

 

What is he doing here?

 

This is ridiculous. He shouldn’t have left Molly. It was unforgivable, and now he’ll never be able to go back, not since Parkman and Bennet saw him, him and Sylar –

 

“Hey, beautiful.”

 

Mohinder turns to see Sylar set a brown grocery bag on the floor, his eyes twinkling with an easy affection.

 

 _It’s fake_ , Mohinder tells himself.  _He lies, he always lies_.

 

But then Sylar’s hands slide to Mohinder’s waist and he brushes a kiss across Mohinder’s mouth. Brief, easy – familiar, by now.

 

Mohinder finds his fingers drifting up to touch his lips.

 

“Something wrong?” asks Sylar.

 

Mohinder smiles, and he finds that it’s not so hard to force as he thought it would be. “No,” he says. “Nothing.”

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

Almost an hour and a half into the drive, that day, Sylar falls asleep. Mohinder doesn’t notice, at first. He only sees it when he glances over, by chance, and notices that Sylar’s eyes are closed, that he rests his head back against the seat, his muscles slack, relaxed.

 

Mohinder smiles to himself – Sylar  _is_ human. Of course he’s human, even though he never sleeps during the night, even though he has abilities that no other human, besides perhaps Peter Petrelli, could match.

 

Even though he’s killed, brutal and bloody, again and again and again…

 

Mohinder bites his lip so hard it almost bleeds, but no sound escapes from his mouth. Just a panic, a short panic, it’ll pass, he tells himself. It’s all right, it’s all right.

 

He unclenches his hands from the wheel, and keeps his eyes on the road. Concentrates now, on keeping his driving steady, not turning too quickly or changing speed, keeping the engine hum constant.

 

 He loses track of time quickly. The road blurs into an endless line. He drives automatically, mindlessly. And beside him, in the passenger seat, Mohinder’s father’s murderer sleeps, his face peaceful for the first time Mohinder can remember.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

“License and registration, please?” The sun glints off of the police officer’s sunglasses, and the traffic whirs past them, on the freeway.

 

Sylar stirs.

 

“I’m sorry, is there a problem?” asks Mohinder, digging out his drivers license, flipping open the glove compartment and leafing through the papers inside.

 

The officer studies the car’s registration for a long moment, and Mohinder wishes he’d spotted the name on it before he passed it along. Sylar is awake now, watching the officer a little too carefully.

 

Oh, dear.

 

“This car has been reported stolen,” says the officer, finally, hand to the butt of his gun. “I’ll need you both to step out of the car.”

 

“I don’t think so,” says Sylar.

 

The officer pulls out his gun. Mohinder moves to the door handle –

 

“Don’t move,” says Sylar. Whether to him or the officer, Mohinder doesn’t know.

 

“You two are under arrest,” says the officer. “Step out of that car  _right now_.”

 

Sylar gestures, casually, and the gun clatters onto the freeway. Mohinder’s eyes widen, and the officer’s partner ducks out of the patrol car.

 

“What the—”

 

And then both of the police officers are on the ground.

 

“What did you just do?” Mohinder asks, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. “Did you just kill two police officers?”

 

“They’re unconscious, not dead,” says Sylar. “Drive.”

 

Mohinder sets his jaw. “So the car is stolen.”

 

“We’ll get a new one.”

 

“That’s not exactly the point I was trying to make.”

 

Sylar cocks his head to the side. “What were we going to do, rent one?”

 

“Stealing a car is a crime,” snaps Mohinder. “And a traceable one.”

 

“You didn’t seem so concerned about it the day before yesterday,” returns Sylar.

 

Mohinder pauses, for a beat. “I didn’t know what I was doing the day before yesterday,” he says, finally.

 

“And you do now?”

 

Mohinder shakes his head. “No. I don’t.”

 

“You’re not angry because I stole a car,” says Sylar.

 

“Yes, I am,” says Mohinder.

 

“No,” says Sylar. “You’re not.” He takes a breath. “Exit here.”

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

“Stand back, Mohinder.”

 

“Why?”

 

Sylar shoots him a glance. “How much gas is in this car?”

 

Mohinder shrugs. “We were almost empty.”

 

“Then stand back.”

 

Mohinder retreats, slowly. He’s nearly at the other end of the vast, empty parking lot when he sees Sylar’s hands begin to glow.

 

Barely a minute later, Mohinder watches, in utter disbelief, as Sylar turns and walks, one step at a time, towards Mohinder. The car, a burning wreck, smolders half-melted and utterly destroyed behind him.

 

“Let’s go,” says Sylar.

 

“You just blew up a  _car_ ,” protests Mohinder, unable to tear his eyes away.

 

“They should be able to find the VIN number,” says Sylar, with a shrug.

 

Mohinder looks to Sylar. “Why?” he manages.

 

“You didn’t want your fingerprints connected with a car theft, did you?” Sylar’s voice is, as always, a little too calm. A little too focused. His hand slides onto Mohinder’s shoulder, turning him away from the fire. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll take a car from the diner, up on the hill.”

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

“Weird, isn’t it,” says Sylar, conversationally, “how someone’s powers reflect them, as a person.”

 

“I’m sorry?” asks Mohinder, and then his mind catches up.

 

“Mine was so indistinguishable from my own natural abilities your father couldn’t even find it.”

 

Mohinder sucks in a breath. It’s the first time Sylar has talked about Mohinder’s father, besides that moment, when Mohinder had Sylar helpless, drugged – though, not so helpless as it seemed, he supposes. Then, Mohinder had hoped, beyond hope, that it was a lie.

 

“I suppose you’re right,” says Mohinder, trying to focus. Trying to think of a single special ability that Sylar hadn’t tried to steal. Or succeeded in stealing.

 

“A nurse reflects the powers of others,” murmurs Sylar. “Empathy. A manipulative criminal has the power to persuade. Painters always see more than meets the eye, and one starts to see into the future…”

 

“And what about Nathan Petrelli?” asks Mohinder. “He always seemed fairly cynical to me. Not the flying type.”

 

Sylar bites his lip. “Politicians are sometimes idealists, you know,” he says. “Inside.”

 

“Why this sudden topic of conversation?” asks Mohinder.

 

“Just,” says Sylar, and he stops. “Just maybe the power isn’t so separable from the person, after all.”

 

Mohinder glances at Sylar, sideways.

 

“Maybe I carry a piece of them,” Sylar says, softer, looking down at his hands. “Maybe they’re not completely dead.”

 

“And what about the ‘normals’ you killed?” asks Mohinder, his tone biting, caustic. “What about those without abilities?”

 

 _What about my father_ , he doesn’t say, but he thinks Sylar hears it, all the same.

 

Sylar stirs, but only to look out the window, as far away from Mohinder as he can.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

In the motel, that night, Sylar pushes Mohinder flat against the wall, the surface smooth against the bare skin of his back. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand.

 

Unsteadily, Mohinder stands, on the wall. He reaches out, flattens his palm against the suddenly perpendicular bedspread. “What are you doing?” asks Mohinder, turning to Sylar.

 

“Come on,” urges Sylar, again, and he leads Mohinder to the ceiling

 

Mohinder stops. “No,” and all he can think about, all he can remember, is being trapped against the ceiling – pinned, helpless, as he watched Sylar try to murder Peter Petrelli. “No,” he says again, pulling away.

 

“Please, Mohinder.” Sylar takes Mohinder’s hand in both of his, curling their fingers together.

 

Mohinder swallows, and he leans against the ceiling, letting Sylar press him flat. He closes his eyes, fighting the racing of his heartbeat, the clench in his hands.

 

“Stop it,” says Sylar.

 

“Stop what?” breathes Mohinder.

 

“Being afraid,” and Sylar kisses him, teasing Mohinder’s tongue into his mouth, pressing long and reassuring. It’s almost a plea, and Mohinder feels himself tense up even more. He can’t help it, he can’t help remembering, and the feel of Sylar’s body over his isn’t helping.

 

Sylar kneels up over Mohinder. He cocks his head to the side, and twists, and then Mohinder is the one on top of Sylar – below him? – and Sylar pulls Mohinder down, his legs spreading just a little under Mohinder’s hands.

 

Mohinder’s heart skips a beat, from the wanton feel of Sylar’s body, and his eyes meet Sylar’s. He’s gone, immediately, in the need he can read in Sylar’s face. “Sylar,” he says, softly, and Sylar’s eyes close.

 

“I love the way you say my name,” Sylar confesses, barely a whisper into Mohinder’s ear.

 

“And how’s that?” Mohinder manages, as Sylar nuzzles in the crook of his neck.

 

“Like it means something.” Sylar shifts, sliding Mohinder’s hand up the inside of his thigh, to the cleft of his ass.

 

Mohinder can barely breathe, suddenly. He retreats, just a little, and presses a kiss to Sylar’s mouth, trying to convince himself that this man is here, he’s _real_ , and that Mohinder doesn’t have to want anymore, he can touch, he can feel –

 

“Is there lotion in the bathroom?” asks Mohinder.

 

Sylar nods; his eyes shift over Mohinder’s shoulder. Mohinder holds out his hand, and in a moment, a small bottle of lotion lights in his palm.

 

Mohinder tries not to let his hands shake; he draws Sylar’s legs to his chest, and says, half-breathless, “you had better not lose concentration.”

 

“The bed’s beneath us,” says Sylar, and his voice isn’t so steady either.

 

“It’s a long way,” says Mohinder, and he rubs the lotion around Sylar’s hole, not pressing in, not yet.

 

Sylar’s breath hitches. “Mohinder,” he pleads, and Mohinder starts stretching him open, slowly, carefully. It’s hard, though – between the way Sylar twitches, underneath him, like he wants just a little bit more, just a  _little_ , and the noise he makes, halfway between a whine and a gasp, when Mohinder withdraws and presses another finger inside.

 

Mohinder thinks he’s never wanted something so badly in his entire life. And Sylar isn’t using his powers, isn’t pushing this beyond what it is – besides keeping them on the ceiling.

 

Finally, Mohinder withdraws, tracing a thumb around Sylar’s stretched opening. “You’re sure you won’t—”

 

“Mohinder—”

 

Mohinder urges Sylar’s legs up, further, and he moves up. He slips inside almost too easily, and Sylar arches against him, opening up, letting Mohinder so far, so amazingly deep inside. Sylar’s body pulses around Mohinder, so alive, so  _warm_ , and when Mohinder presses in, just so –

 

Sylar gives a pained, hungry cry, and Mohinder does it again, just to see Sylar hitch up, open that much more.

 

 _How did I not know this about you?_ Mohinder thinks, trailing a finger across Sylar’s mouth.

 

Sylar parts his lips, meeting the finger with his tongue, letting it slip just inside. He’s desperate, so sweet and desperate, and he could force Mohinder to move any time now, just with a thought, but he isn’t.

 

He  _isn’t_.

 

And so Mohinder does.

 

Sylar’s orgasm is silent, caught in his throat, ripped from his body. Mohinder feels it, white-hot and perfect, from the  _inside_  – he doesn’t have to hear it, not at all – and his own pleasure is blinding bright, poured from one trembling form to another.

 

“Hold on,” says Sylar, barely a breath, “I’m going to catch us.”

 

Mohinder feels as though he’s falling, then they both come to rest on the hotel sheets. The blankets, obligingly, pull over them, and Sylar snugs into Mohinder, like he couldn’t stand to be away.

 

Mohinder inhales in Sylar’s hair, and he closes his eyes.

 

-                       -                       -                       -

 

He awakens when it’s still dark, Sylar’s hand over his mouth.

 

“They’re here,” whispers Sylar, and he takes his hand away, slowly.

 

“Who?” asks Mohinder, sitting up.

 

“The FBI.” Sylar’s already out of the bed. He tosses Mohinder his clothes. “I can hear them outside. We have to go.”

 

“How did they,” starts Mohinder, but Sylar shakes his head.

 

As soon as they’re both dressed, Sylar takes Mohinder’s hand, leads him out to the balcony. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs, and Mohinder does, wrapping an arm around Sylar’s waist.

 

A moment later, they’re down in the parking lot. Mohinder can see the distant lights of the police cars; Sylar gestures to a car, an unfamiliar one.

 

“We’re taking this one,” he decides.

 

As the car starts, under Mohinder’s fingertips, Sylar’s hand slides over his. “No lights,” says Sylar. “Until we get to the street.”

 

Mohinder blinks the exhaustion from his eyes, and he nods.

 

Together, they escape into the night.


	5. Part 5

“You’re upset.”

 

Mohinder jumps, startled from reverie. He tears his eyes away from the trees – endless trees, crowding against the highway from both sides – and glances to Sylar, briefly, before returning to the road.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, automatically.

 

“Don’t apologize,” snaps Sylar, and Mohinder flinches.

 

“I think maybe I’m tired,” says Mohinder. “Perhaps you could take over.”

 

Sylar eyes the steering wheel with a mix of trepidation and disgust.

 

“That is,” continues Mohinder, “if you do, in fact, know how to drive.”

 

They switch at the next exit. Mohinder feels better as soon as he’s not at the wheel, and he falls asleep braced awkwardly against the seatbelt.

 

The nap is fitful and interrupted; dimly, he can feel the distant swaying of the car, Sylar’s presence beside him. He dreams of Bennet and a dark-skinned man, eerie and silent. Mohinder finds himself trying to convince them, insisting lowly that he’s doing good, that he can keep Sylar from killing again, that letting him go back to Sylar is the right thing to do.

 

Bennet’s face turns cold. He looks to the dark man. “Clean him out.”

 

Mohinder opens his eyes, his heart pounding. The car stops, unnaturally smoothly.

 

“What is it?”

 

Mohinder swallows. “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?” he asks. “We’re not going to get hurt or killed, like this.”

 

Sylar’s eyes harden. “There are no guarantees.”

 

Mohinder looks away, out the window. A Wal-Mart. They’re at the far end of the parking lot. In the distance, he sees a family emerge from the sliding doors.

 

When he turns back, there’s an odd, distant expression on Sylar’s face.

 

“What are you doing?” Mohinder asks, cautiously.

 

“Listening to your heartbeat,” Sylar tells him, his fingers moving up, curling around the back of Mohinder’s neck, pressing up just under Mohinder’s jaw.

 

Mohinder leans into it, savoring it, somehow, and Sylar pulls Mohinder over, presses a kiss to his temple.

 

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Sylar promises.

 

\- - - -

 

The parking lot of that night’s hotel is half iced over. Mohinder doesn’t realize, not until he gets out and slips, flails, barely catching the rearview mirror in a grip hard enough to stop his fall.

 

Sylar snorts – not quite a laugh, but genuine, amused, not derisive.

 

Mohinder shoots him a dirty look. “You could have warned me.”

 

Sylar shrugs. “People from India can’t recognize ice?”

 

“I know what ice looks like,” says Mohinder, “when it’s not pretending to be asphalt.” He takes a cautious step, slips, and grabs onto the car again. “You know, you could lend a hand here.”

 

“And do what?” asks Sylar.

 

“Melt it?” Mohinder makes it to a patch of dry pavement. “I don’t know. You can manipulate ice, can’t you?”

 

“Aren’t casual displays of power…dangerous?” asks Sylar, stepping up next to Mohinder, completely steady on the ice.

 

Mohinder sighs.

 

Sylar reaches out and takes Mohinder’s hand.

 

Mohinder slips again, and Sylar’s arm is around his waist, setting him back upright.

 

“I won’t let you fall,” says Sylar.

 

Mohinder swallows, and he lets Sylar guide him inside.

 

\- - - -

 

The hotel room is nearly as cold as the December air outside. Mohinder shivers as they step in, watching his breath frost in the air.

 

“Good god,” he mutters, “don’t they ever heat this place?”

 

“This isn’t exactly the height of tourist season,” says Sylar, and he slips off Mohinder’s jacket.

 

“What are you doing?” Mohinder turns, snatching for the jacket, but Sylar drops it on the floor, out of reach.

 

“Warming you up,” says Sylar, simply.

 

The shower water is steaming hot, almost immediately – Mohinder doubts that’s a normal feature of this particular hotel’s water system, but he doesn’t complain, just let’s Sylar push him in, against the tile.

 

Mohinder shivers again at the cold ceramic – his teeth chatter, a little.

 

Sylar presses Mohinder fully against the tile, tilting his head to capture Mohinder’s mouth. Mohinder loops his arm around the back of Sylar’s neck, the tip of Sylar’s tongue dipping into his mouth, teasing, coaxing.

 

“Oh, god,” Mohinder says, half in a moan, as blood stirs in his veins, his fingers tingling and thawing in the shower’s heat. He sees the glint in Sylar’s eye, the tilt of Sylar’s head, and suddenly he’s painfully aware of his accelerating heartbeat. Sylar can hear it, he thinks, and he gasps, hard already.

 

Mohinder can feel Sylar’s hunger, bleeding through his skin, infecting Mohinder. It’s perfect, so perfect – and just then, Mohinder wants this to go on forever.

 

He twists, so that the water is spraying hot on his chilled back, so that Sylar is back against the wall, watching Mohinder with widened, dark eyes. Wary, but trusting.

 

Mohinder drops to his knees, sliding one palm up Sylar’s thigh. He looks up, to Sylar’s dark, dilated eyes.

 

“Mohinder,” breathes Sylar, and Mohinder closes his eyes against the shock of sensation the simple word sends through him. One kiss, in the crease of Sylar’s hip, and Sylar slips into his mouth, deeper, faster than Mohinder is expecting.

 

Sylar’s breath trembles – a twist of Mohinder’s tongue, and Sylar jerks, gasps in disbelief.

 

I want you, thinks Mohinder, and he takes Sylar further, letting him thrust, just a little. He’s so aroused it hurts, his knees splayed awkwardly over the vaguely discolored hotel bathtub. He doesn’t have words for this, for how much he needs Sylar, so he holds on, licks and touches, explores, until Sylar tightens and Mohinder swallows, reflexively, spitting the rest to the ground, grimacing at the taste.

 

Sylar pulls Mohinder to his feet and kisses him, ignoring Mohinder’s flinch.

 

“I want you,” Sylar whispers, in Mohinder’s ear, and Mohinder’s heart skips a beat.

 

\- - - -

 

The blankets are torn away with telekinesis; Mohinder moves back, settling against the pillows, and Sylar watches him, eyes probing and testing Mohinder’s body as surely as if he were already there, hands and fingers and mind everywhere on Mohinder’s skin.

 

“Sylar?” queries Mohinder, a tremor in his voice.

 

“Ssh,” returns Sylar. Not a reassurance, but a command.

 

Mohinder shrinks – not truly afraid, but with a kind of nervous anticipation.

 

“I don’t even have to touch you, do I?” murmurs Sylar, softly, trailing a hand along in the air just above Mohinder’s skin. Mohinder can almost feel it, an electric connection between them. Goosebumps tingle up Mohinder’s arms, half from the cold, half in reaction to Sylar’s casual tone, the acknowledgement of his power.

 

The first invisible touch skims along Mohinder’s stomach. Mohinder flinches away in surprise, and looks, panicked, towards Sylar.

 

“Don’t move,” says Sylar. “Just stay there.”

 

Mohinder takes a breath and consciously relaxes back, with trepidation. He’s not entirely comfortable with Sylar’s powers, yet, but the few experiences he’s had –

 

Mohinder swallows – a strange kind of massage, but there’s no sensation of skin-on-skin contact. Just the odd feel of skin and muscle compressing, on its own. It’s eerie, disconcerting.

 

It moves upwards, and Mohinder feels his arms pull upwards, above his head. When he pushes against it, the telekinesis holds him, steady and utterly immovable.

 

He starts to tense, to struggle, but even as he does, Sylar moves to Mohinder’s neck, to the tight muscle there. It’s an inexplicable sensation – the muscle unkinks itself, relaxing, straightening, easing until Mohinder forgets to think about struggling and just submits to it, with a soft moan.

 

Mohinder’s pubic hair ruffles; he feels a strange pressure against the base of his erection. It’s not enough, and he squirms – fruitless, but reflexive.

 

“Don’t move,” says Sylar, firmly.

 

Mohinder gasps, and he closes his eyes.

 

His legs are drawn apart, a light pressure moving up the inside of his thighs, slowing and pressing, almost a massage, but teasing, just short of where Mohinder wants it.

 

Mohinder clenches his hands, wanting so badly to move into the touch, trembling from the effort it takes to stay still. It should feel cold, impersonal – Sylar isn’t touching him, there’s no real contact – but it feels more personal, closer. Like Sylar isn’t just touching Mohinder with his body, but with his mind.

 

Mohinder chokes back a cry as the cheeks of his ass are separated, as a slight pressure grows against his opening.

 

The bed shifts as Sylar moves onto it – he touches Mohinder, with a shock of warm hands, and pulls Mohinder close, into his arms. “Hold on,” whispers Sylar, and Mohinder feels a wave of pleasure roll across him, the burn as he’s stretched open, pressed deeper. His erection jerks, and then there’s another wave of pleasure, another – Mohinder imagines Sylar inside him, cutting off blood vessels and stimulating nerves and manipulating sensations. Before – before it felt amazing. But this is almost too good, like Sylar has learned, like he holds the keys to Mohinder’s body and is bringing them out, one by one.

 

Mohinder twists, clutching at Sylar, muffling the helpless noises in the curve of Sylar’s neck. Sylar holds him, comforting and steady, and Mohinder can’t stand it, he can’t stand being comforted and fucked out like this. It’s conflicting, overwhelming – it’s too much – but it’s all he has to cling to.

 

Mohinder loses track of how long it takes. It just keeps building – again and again, Mohinder feels close to climax, close to completely losing it, and he expects Sylar to back off, ease him down and coax him back up again. But Sylar doesn’t. He just keeps pushing Mohinder to new heights, drawing him towards Nirvana, utter pleasure crashing through his body.

 

The climax doesn’t come until Sylar is ready – until Mohinder is sobbing the ecstasy into Sylar’s shoulder, so far gone he can’t seem to remember where he stops and where Sylar begins. The orgasm rocks through Mohinder’s entire body, and he shrieks it into Sylar’s shoulder. It lasts, too, a second and third wave following on the first, rippling through him, almost gentle, delicate, but still devastating.

 

Finally, Mohinder breathes again, his veins flooded with relaxation, contentment.

 

Sylar stokes his cheek, presses a chaste kiss to his mouth. Lets Mohinder recover his breath.

 

“You’re hard again,” manages Mohinder, curling closer to Sylar.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” says Sylar.

 

“I need you,” Mohinder whispers.

 

“You’re sore,” protests Sylar.

 

“Please,” says Mohinder – he needs to know. He has to feel it.

 

Sylar kisses him – acceptance and disbelief and awe and need, all in one. A shift, upward, and Sylar fumbles for a moment; then there are slick fingers at Mohinder’s opening, not stretching, but making sure to ease the way.

 

“Now,” pleads Mohinder.

 

Sylar slips inside him so easily – and it does hurt. It hurts with the strain of abused flesh and overstressed muscles. Mohinder exhales in relief, almost a hiss through his teeth. He’s not aroused; this is something different. Something more.

 

“Am I hurting you?” breathes Sylar.

 

“Don’t stop,” Mohinder gasps.

 

He feels it now. He knows how much Sylar needs him, and it’s perfect.

 

\- - - -

 

The morning light is watery and diffuse; the glow that makes it past the curtains is barely enough to outline the room.

 

Mohinder shifts to his side, lazy and exhausted, sliding his hand in between Sylar’s chest and the comforter, heavy and warm. The hotel room is still freezing, but Sylar isn’t, and Mohinder drifts closer to him, longing to trap some of that warmth for himself.

 

Sylar was awake before Mohinder was – Mohinder can see Sylar’s eyes glint in the strange, dull light.

 

“Do you love me, Mohinder?”

 

Mohinder’s heart skips a beat. He wonders, for a second, how to answer. If he even really knows what love is. If this all-consuming need, this helpless attraction, the strained, beaten, roughshod human connection is love.

 

Mohinder shifts up on his elbows. “Let me ask you a question,” he says.

 

Sylar looks up, expectant.

 

“If you could do everything over again,” says Mohinder, “what would you change?”

 

Sylar doesn’t respond, immediately. He doesn’t meet Mohinder’s eyes. “Nothing,” he says, finally.

 

“Don’t lie to me,” says Mohinder.

 

Sylar closes his eyes, turning away.

 

Mohinder cups Sylar’s jaw, moves closer, presses a kiss to his mouth. A kiss that somehow goes deeper than Mohinder intends.

 

“What would you change?” Mohinder whispers.

 

Sylar inhales slowly. “I wouldn’t have called you.”

 

Mohinder sits back, jaw set. “Why not?”

 

Sylar grits his jaw.

 

“Fine,” sighs Mohinder. “Tell me this: what would be different, if I hadn’t tried to call the police. If I’d, I don’t know, gone over and helped you. Listened. What would have changed?”

 

Sylar shakes his head. “Nothing.”

 

“Nothing,” echoes Mohinder, flatly, disbelieving. “Nothing would be different.” Mohinder presses hard against the scar marring the center of Sylar’s chest; in pained reflex, Sylar pushes Mohinder away, forcefully, more with telekinesis than with his own strength.

 

“Tell me again,” Mohinder snaps. “Nothing would be different. Tell me again.”

 

“You couldn’t have stopped this,” says Sylar.

 

“Why?” asks Mohinder. “And don’t give me something about destiny. You wanted to be saved. I could have helped.”

 

“Then why didn’t you?” It’s almost snarled – for an instant, Sylar’s face is vivid with anger, righteous, injured anger, suppressed but not eliminated. Then it fades, like it was never there. “I wish I hadn’t called you,” says Sylar, softly. “I didn’t need to know.”

 

“Know what?”

 

“That you didn’t want to save me.”

 

“I do,” counters Mohinder, moving closer. “I came with you, didn’t I?”

 

“You took a leap of faith, when you had no choice.” Sylar looks away. “I was going to keep coming after you,” he murmurs, “so you decided to give me what I want.”

 

Mohinder swallows, his throat working. “What is it, Sylar?” he asks. “What is it that you want?”

 

Sylar swallows. He takes Mohinder’s hand, twists fingers together one by one. “I want to know,” says Sylar, finally, “that you believe I can be saved.”

 

“Everyone can be saved,” says Mohinder, “if—”

 

“Not good enough,” Sylar interrupts.

 

Mohinder’s throat feels like it’s closing. “Why does it matter?” he manages. “I’m here, you have the chance to convince me–”

 

“I have to know.” Sylar tightens his hold on Mohinder’s hand.

 

“You killed my father,” Mohinder whispers.

 

“Please,” Sylar pleads, “tell me that you’ll help me – not for them, not so that another faceless person can stay alive, but for me.”

 

“And if I can’t?”

 

Sylar shakes his head, his eyes red-tinged, open wide.

 

Mohinder takes a long, shaky breath. “There is nowhere,” says Mohinder, “nowhere that I would rather be, but here. With you,” and the truth is so raw that it hurts, physically hurts to tell.

 

“Mohinder,” whispers Sylar.

 

“I want to help you,” Mohinder presses on. “Will you let me?”

 

Sylar moves into the circle of Mohinder’s arms, silent, overcome. After a moment, Mohinder can feel Sylar nod, against his neck.

 

I love you, thinks Mohinder, but he doesn’t say a word.


	6. Part 6

Mohinder wakes up to the quiet gush of liquid, spilling from the mouth of a bottle.

 

The bed beside him is cold; Mohinder shifts up, bracing himself on his elbows. Sylar is on the other side of the room, a plastic Aquafina on its side spreading a pool of water on the glass-topped desk. Sylar’s brows are furrowed, in concentration, his hand outstretched over the liquid.

 

Frost spreads on the desk; the water expands to ice, and with a sharp crack, it rises from the table, shatters into uncountable pieces.

 

Mohinder has the urge, then, to test this – how many different objects can Sylar hold in the air? Is there a mass or weight limitation? Is there an acceleration limitation?

 

He watches, rapt, as the fragments re-arrange, stacking on top of one another, melting, freezing. It’s a kind of magic, a shape slowly emerging in midair, frozen and fluid. Sylar’s eyes are narrowed, his gaze tight and focused.

 

Mohinder slips out from under the covers, shivering a little in the frigid air. He moves to stand next to Sylar, and watches as the last of the sculpture solidifies. It’s a shape – no, not one shape, but two, entwined, formless. It flows so seamlessly –

 

“What is it?” breathes Mohinder, unwilling to speak louder, unwilling to disrupt the soft tension of the room.

 

“Does it have to mean something?” asks Sylar, and he closes his fist. Before Mohinder’s eyes, the sculpture sublimates, dissolving into a cold mist, dissipating into the air.

 

Mohinder blinks. “I suppose not,” he murmurs.

 

Sylar turns to him, then, his mouth open as if he were about to say something – and he stops.

 

“What is it?” asks Mohinder.

 

Sylar reaches out, touches him, with a kind of awe. “The way you’re looking at me—”

 

Mohinder flushes, looks away.

 

“No, no,” and Sylar cups Mohinder’s cheek, turns Mohinder’s gaze back to him. He pauses, with a torn look on his face, a suppressed anguish. “What is it you see?”

 

“You,” says Mohinder, simply.

 

Sylar kisses him, with a hunger that Mohinder has never touched before. “Don’t ever stop, okay?” asks Sylar, his voice rough.

 

\- - - -

 

“This can’t last forever.”

 

Mohinder glances over to Sylar, his heart clenching. “What do you mean?”

 

“This.” Sylar gestures out, at the stolen car, the moving landscape. “We can’t live like this.”

 

“What do you suggest, then?” asks Mohinder.

 

“We should leave,” says Sylar. “America isn’t safe.”

 

“Nowhere is safe,” murmurs Mohinder, an echo of Sylar’s words from – how many days ago?

 

Sylar glances askance at him. “Another country,” he says, dipping his head. “We could disappear, they’d never find us.”

 

Disappear. Abandon everything, abandon his life –

 

But, Mohinder has already done that, hasn’t he?

 

“Russia,” says Mohinder.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Russia has no extradition treaty with the United States,” says Mohinder. “If it comes to that.”

 

“I don’t speak Russian.”

 

“Neither do I.” Mohinder slides his hand along the edge of the wheel. “They also have a very good exchange rate, if we’re transferring from the dollar.”

 

Sylar laughs.

 

“How are we going to get there, though?” asks Mohinder.

 

“I have an idea,” says Sylar.

 

\- - - -

 

The supermarket is empty – not that Mohinder would expect any different, at one-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday. It’s still eerie, somehow, open and empty.

 

He wishes Sylar had come with him.

 

But, no, Sylar is waiting back in the parking lot, keeping a look out for a new car. They have to work separately sometimes, that’s the way it has to be, no matter how much Mohinder wants to be with him.

 

Wants to watch him, that is. Make sure he doesn’t kill again.

 

Mohinder turns the corner, towards the produce section, and slips on the wet floor.

 

\- - - -

 

The pavement is rough against his palm – and cold, too. Not icy, though, and Mohinder registers it slowly, the dim light from above, the open grocery bag next to him.

 

How did he get here?

 

This is the grocery store parking lot, he confirms, with a quick glance. The glowing sign for the store is extinguished, now – they close at two in the morning, he remembered seeing on the entrance. So, he lost half an hour –

 

No. No, he remembers going to the front of the store, checking out. Walking out the rest of the way, so he could meet Sylar. He remembers it, of course he does.

 

Then why…

 

“Mohinder?”

 

Mohinder glances up, to Sylar.

 

“Are you all right?’

 

“I’m fine,” says Mohinder, moving to his feet. Staggering a little. “Just a little tired.”

 

\- - - -

 

“It seems every time we’re together, we’re traveling,” says Mohinder, into the silence of the new hotel room. The latest hotel room. “In between one place and the next; never really one thing or the other.”

 

Sylar glances at him, doesn’t reply.

 

Mohinder settles down, against the headboard of the bed. “Why did you want to come with me? Was it just about the list?”

 

“No,” says Sylar. “It wasn’t.” He pauses, then, “not just that.”

 

“Then what was it about?”

 

Sylar turns away, thumb tracing the edge of his mouth, as though he’s uncertain how to reply. “You saw me melt –” he half-laughs. “Melt the toaster, and you were amazed. You weren’t afraid, or shocked or awkward, and you told me – told me that there was no shame in this.” He turns back, to Mohinder. “I didn’t just want the list.”

 

“Come here,” says Mohinder.

 

Sylar, hesitantly, moves onto the bed next to Mohinder; Mohinder leans over, rests his head on Sylar’s shoulder.

 

“What are you doing?” asks Sylar.

 

“Sssh,” and Mohinder listens. He can hear the quiet, rhythmic hiss of Sylar’s breath, the throb of his heartbeat. And gradually, the silence grows. Sylar’s arm wraps around Mohinder’s shoulders, and he closes his eyes.

 

Mohinder isn’t sure how long they stay like that, but it’s a long time – long enough for the light outside to fade to black from the grey-orange of twilight.

 

\- - - -

 

“Tell me about my father.”

 

Sylar turns to Mohinder, under the sheets next to him. “What do you mean?”

 

“Tell me about him.” Mohinder’s eyes are fixed on the ceiling. “How did you meet? Why did you—” Mohinder swallows, cutting off the question. “How was his research? Was he – was he happy, before—”

 

“Mohinder,” says Sylar, “I’m not sure I can—”

 

“Don’t give me that.” Mohinder’s throat is tight. “You knew him, before he died. You were the only person to really know him then, and I have to hear it.”

 

Sylar is silent.

 

Mohinder shifts up, on his side, facing Sylar. “Do you think we can avoid this forever?”

 

Sylar shakes his head.

 

“Sylar, please.”

 

A pause, then, “Your father came into my shop one day, and gave me a book.”

 

“Activating Evolution.”

 

Sylar nods. “He told me he had a new theory of evolution, and he ‘believed I was a part of it’.” He closes his eyes. “He tested me for weeks, found nothing at all. Finally, he told me he might have been wrong.” Sylar takes a shuddery breath. “I overreacted, and I contacted a telekinetic, before he could.”

 

Mohinder inhales, too rapidly.

 

“It was in the book,” and Sylar’s voice shakes. “Evolutionary imperative. Killing the weak. It was easy, and I thought that made it right.” He pauses, recovers his composure. “He believed me, then. Called me the miracle that he’d been waiting for. He—” Sylar considers his words. “I don’t know if you could call him happy.”

 

“What was he, then?”

 

“He wasn’t content,” says Sylar. “But he was where he was meant to be. Doing what he was meant to do.”

 

“And you killed him.” Mohinder is surprised, distantly, at the flat, emotionless quality of his voice.

 

Sylar flinches back. “I used him,” he returns, through a clenched jaw. “I used him to find others, the same way I used you.”

 

Mohinder can’t take it anymore; he turns away, his back to Sylar.

 

“He knew what I was,” says Sylar. “He had to have known. But he used me too, Mohinder. For his research. I was never his friend, I was his test subject, his theory come to life, and for a while I needed that. But it wasn’t enough.”

 

“And you killed him,” Mohinder repeats, in a whisper.

 

“I hated him,” Sylar forces out. “I hated him, for not seeing what I was capable of. For not –” He stops. “Mohinder, I’m so sorry.”

 

Mohinder shrugs off the first touch, in a violent spasm, curling further away from Sylar. Sylar persists, though, touches him again, his hand sliding flat on Mohinder’s shoulder.

 

“Mohinder, please,” whispers Sylar.

 

Mohinder turns, into Sylar’s arms – he needs it, needs the comfort – and sobs, broken, into the curve of Sylar’s neck.

 

\- - - -

 

“Come with me,” says Sylar, after Mohinder’s emotion is spent.

 

“Where are we going?” asks Mohinder, sitting up. Wary.

 

“Out,” Sylar tells him.

 

\- - - -

 

Across the street from the hotel, there’s a graveyard.

 

Mohinder stumbles, on the curb. “Sylar, what are we doing here?”

 

“Just come on.”

 

Mohinder follows, the moon barely lighting enough for him to distinguish between gravestone and grass. He stumbles, once or twice, but finds himself righted, balanced, with barely a glance from Sylar.

 

“Sylar, just tell me,” says Mohinder, as they reach the far edge of the graveyard, underneath the span of a leafless tree.

 

“You never grieved, did you?” asks Sylar.

 

“We had a funeral for him.”

 

“But you never grieved.” Sylar turns away, looks out over the irregular rows of graves. “You have to let him go.”

 

“I can’t just let him go,” returns Mohinder. “He’s my father.”

 

“Was your father,” corrects Sylar.

 

“Don’t do this.”

 

“Let him go, Mohinder.”

 

Mohinder flings Sylar away from him, falling back against the tree. His breath is coming too fast, in near-sobs again. He slides to the ground, the bark catching on the fabric of his coat.

 

Sylar kneels in front of him. “You asked me what I would change,” says Sylar. “If I could change anything, anything at all.”

 

Mohinder looks up.

 

“I would change how he treated you,” says Sylar. “I would change that he lived alone, that he left you back in India, came to America to pursue his own research. I would—” and he reaches out, cups Mohinder’s cheek. “I would have met you first, before any of this – before I killed anyone.”

 

“Sylar—”

 

“I would have loved you,” Sylar blurts, “I know I would have, and maybe you would have loved me back, and maybe it would have been different.”

 

“I am in love with you,” Mohinder confesses, finally, and Sylar holds his gaze, a desperate, fluttering hope in his eyes.

 

“Step away from him.”

 

Mohinder jerks. It’s Bennet – Bennet, and Niki and Matt Parkman and a dark-skinned man, silent, eerie.

 

“What are you doing here?” Mohinder breathes, scrambling to his feet. Sylar retreats, a few feet, ready to fight.

 

“He says that every time,” says Parkman.

 

Sylar looks to Mohinder, eyes narrow in bewilderment. Every time – Mohinder shakes his head, his eyes wide. I didn’t betray you.

 

Bennet cocks his gun, points it straight at Sylar.

 

“What are you doing?” cries Mohinder, and Niki’s gun is up, then, in Mohinder’s face.

 

Sylar makes a gesture, as though to send the guns away from their owners – but nothing happens. He frowns, does it again –

 

And Mohinder’s stomach sinks.

 

“Come on,” he says, to Sylar. “We have to get out of here.”

 

“You were right,” says Niki, to Bennet. “I don’t believe it.” Sylar backs off a step, and Niki turns her gun towards him. “One more inch,” she says, “and I shoot.”

 

“No!” Mohinder makes a lunge, towards Sylar, but Bennet is faster. He slams Mohinder against the tree, knocking the air out of him, and presses the gun to the soft flesh underneath Mohinder’s jaw.

 

“Mohinder.” Sylar’s eyes are clear, now. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Kill him,” snaps Bennet.

 

Mohinder can’t look away –

 

“Gladly,” says Niki.

 

The gunshot tears through the near-silence of the graveyard. Sylar falls, awkward, loose-limbed.

 

Mohinder may have yelled; he does struggle, against Bennet’s hold, but the man is too strong for him. Sylar stirs, against the ground, and he lifts his hand.

 

It’s like a shockwave – a burst of energy, a pulse, straight through Mohinder’s body. He’s thrown back against the grass, dizzy, disoriented.

 

One final gunshot blast, then – “He’s dead,” says Niki. “What the hell was that?”

 

Bennet’s footsteps reach Mohinder. “Dr. Suresh,” he says, evenly.

 

Mohinder’s head hurts; there’s a distant, strange nausea churning in his stomach.

 

“How,” says Bennet, “I have to admit, I’m fascinated as to why a man like you, a man with morals, standards, would be traveling with a serial killer. I’m sure there are a lot of fascinating reasons, as you’ve told us, every time we’ve asked you.”

 

“Every time?” whispers Mohinder.

 

“Three times,” says Matt Parkman. “Once after the first night you were with him, then again when he left you alone in the hotel room. The third time—”

 

“The grocery store,” finishes Mohinder. He can’t feel his heart beating – he wonders if this is what being in shock feels like. “I must have explained it to you, didn’t I?”

 

“You told us you were trying to redeem him,” scoffs Matt.

 

“I’d like you to think about this,” says Bennet. “Do you know what his motives were?”

 

“Yes,” answers Mohinder, automatically.

 

“Do you know for sure?” Bennet crouches, next to Mohinder. “Can you be certain he wasn’t trying to get your research? For that matter, can you be certain there was no kind of mind-control involved?”

 

Mohinder wants to protest, wants to tell Bennet that yes, yes he’s sure – but, somehow, the very idea of Sylar seems distant, right now. Black and white, old, drained of emotion.

 

“I’d suggest you consider your answer carefully,” and there’s a hint of warning, of threat in Bennet’s tone.

 

“I don’t know,” whispers Mohinder. “I don’t know.”

 

“All right.” Bennet straightens up, helps Mohinder to his feet. “Come on, we’ll take you back to New York City.”

 

\- - - -

 

Mohinder is violently sick, the next day. The car ride blurs into a fever-dream, distorted through the dull pain of his body, broken by stretches of the car screeching to a halt, of Mohinder falling out the door, heaving by the side of the road until his stomach is empty and his mouth is sour, gritty, acidic.

 

He alternately has sweats and shivers, his body trembling so hard he can’t sit up, can’t lie down, even braced on the car seat as he is. They take him straight to a hospital, instead of to his own apartment – he remembers it only dully, as snapshots of worried nurses, the twinge of an IV into his vein, the cold touch of a doctor.

 

He wakes up the morning of the fourth day fresher, clearer than he’s ever been.

 

\- - - -

 

“We have all the resources here you’ll need to reconstruct your research,” Bennet tells him. “Computers, lab equipment – if you need anything else, all you have to do is ask.”

 

Mohinder nods, surveying the room. Formerly company property, he guesses. Now taken over by Bennet.

 

“I’ll need DNA samples,” he says.

 

Bennet looks to Niki.

 

“Oh, fine,” sighs Niki. “What do you need?”

 

\- - - -

 

Mohinder decides to run Niki’s DNA against a sample of his own, as a starting point – he should be able to narrow down the sites for the abilities between those he remembers. He puts in the specific parameters, and runs the program, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

 

NO MATCH, reports the computer.

 

Mohinder blinks. He has it search the specific sites again.

 

NO MATCH returns, stubbornly, to the screen.

 

Mohinder sits back in his chair. Maybe he was mistaken about the site of the mutations…? No. He remembers it quite clearly.

 

He bites his lip, and then he remembers. A burst of energy, from Sylar, just before his death. Sylar stole powers for himself – did that mean –

 

Mohinder clutches his stool, overcome by a wave of dizziness. Oh, god – the sickness, the fever, the doctors never had figured out what caused it. What if it was his system, going through a change in his very DNA –

 

With shaking hands, Mohinder reaches out, towards a mug half-filled with cold chai, and he concentrates.

 

With a twitch, the cup tumbles off the table, crashing into the floor.

 

Mohinder falls to the ground, the pull of gravity so extreme it feels like it’s stripping the very flesh from his bones.

 

“Just,” says Sylar, and he stops. “Just maybe the power isn’t so separable from the person, after all.”

 

Mohinder glances at Sylar, sideways.

 

“Maybe I carry a piece of them,” Sylar says, softer, looking down at his hands. “Maybe they’re not completely dead.”

 

Mohinder buries his head in his hands, and he swears he can feel the new powers, burning deep inside his veins. The last gift, of a dying lover.

 

I will love you forever, thinks Mohinder, and he prays for the dawn to come.


End file.
